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BY 

KATHARINE  NEWLIN  BURT 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  BRANDING  IRON,"  "  THE  RED  LADY 
"HIDDEN  CREEK,"  AND  "SNOW-BLIND" 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

pres£  Cambridge 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,  IQ22,  BY  KATHARINE  NEWLIN  HURT 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


grces 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


TO 

CALIFORNIA  CAL 

WHO  I  AM  SURE 
WILL  NEVER  READ  IT 


M271L9 


CONTENTS 

I.  A  QUEER  CUSTOMER  .  3 

II.  SIR  SYDNEY  GRINSCOOMBE  SUFFERS  AN  IN 
SULT  15 

III.  CHIVALRY  27 

IV.  THE  BEGINNING  OF  AN  EDUCATION  35 
V.  A  CROSSING  OF  SWORDS  43 

VI.  CONCERNING  LOVES  AND  HATREDS  56 

VII.  THE  STARS  IN  THEIR  COURSES  67 

VIII.  THE  LETTER  F  78 

IX.  MORE  ABOUT  THE  LETTER  F  94 

X.  WANTED  —  A  LISTENER  107 

XI.  LAYER  CAKE  116 

XII.  NEW  WINE  IN  OLD  BOTTLES  127 

XIII.  A  GAME  OF  CHESS  142 

XIV.  DIPLOMACY  157 
XV.  A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  MOON  169 

XVI.  WHIP  HAND  185 

XVII.  GRINSCOOMBERY  196 

XVIII.  SOWING  THE  WIND  210 

XIX.  REAPING  THE  WHIRLWIND  221 

XX.  SANCTUARY  234 

XXI.  THE  VOICE  OF  RUMOR  239 


viii  Contents 


XXII.  Miss  SELDA  CALLS  FOR  HELP  248 

XXIII.  AT  FOLLY  INN  255 

XXIV.  JUSTICE  270 
XXV.  A  HOLD-UP  279 

XXVI.  Miss  SELDA'S  PRIDE  292 

XXVII.  OLD  BOTTLES 

XXVIII.  A  COPY-BOOK 

XXIX.  BESIDE  STILL  WATERS  307 


«  6    /^V     ?  > 


Q 


"Q" 


CHAPTER  I 

A  QUEER  CUSTOMER 

Miss  MARIANA  BENTON,  very  slim,  very  languid, 
very  much  waved  as  to  hair  and  very  much  mani 
cured  as  to  fingers,  minding  the  desk  at  the  River 
Hotel,  was  twice  aware  of  a  gently  spoken  question 
before  she  felt  constrained  to  remove  her  gaze  from 
an  object  of  stronger  interest. 

"When  you  get  real  weary,  lady,"  the  gentle  voice 
began  a  third  time,  and  now  there  was  a  drawl  in  its 
gentleness,  "of  gazing  at  the  blond  feller  that  runs 
the  buzz-box,  I  'd  sure  be  obliged  if  you  'd  transfer  a 
little  of  your  attention  to  me." 

At  this  she  did  —  meaning  to  look  the  speaker  over 
at  her  leisure.  But  she  stopped  at  his  eyes.  They 
seemed  to  see  all  the  little  bones  of  her  head  and 
all  the  little  nerves  that  ran  through  the  gray  matter 
and  all  the  sensations  and  comments  that  were  being 
carried  along  these  nerves;  but,  besides  seeing  all 
these  things,  the  eyes  seemed  at  the  same  time  to  be 
looking  quite  through  to  a  point  miles  and  broad 
miles  behind  her,  so  that  she  was  appallingly  con 
scious  of  the  infinitesimal  smallness  of  those  afore- 


4 "Q" 

mentioned  bones  and  nerves  and  the  utter  insignifi 
cance  of  their  devices.  For  the  rest  —  the  eyes  were 
very  gray,  very  cool,  very  brilliant,  and  —  beyond  all 
Miss  Benton's  experience  of  eyes  —  direct. 

Quite  involuntarily  and  before  she  was  conscious  of 
meaning  to  speak  at  all,  she  found  herself  stammer 
ing,  "Oh,  I  beg  pardon!"  —  and  it  was  the  first  time 
in  her  capacity  of  clerk  that  she  had  ever  made  even 
a  gesture  of  apology.  At  the  same  time  she  blushed 
and,  dropping  her  confused  gaze,  she  pushed  the  ho 
tel  register  forward,  dipped  a  pen  into  the  ink-well 
and  handed  the  holder  to  the  owner  of  the  extraor 
dinary  eyes.  He  took  it  with  a  certain  deliberateness. 
The  hand  was  brown  and  well-kept  and  muscular.  It 
•laid  hold  of  the  pen  and  cramped  itself  awkwardly 
about  it.  A  sleek  head  with  hair  of  a  nondescript  sun- 
bleached  brown  and  a  pair  of  powerful  shoulders  bent 
over  the  hand.  With  a  royal  disregard  for  lines,  and 
limitations,  the  stranger  wrote  —  wrote  slowrly ,  wrote 
laboriously,  wrote  very  large.  Fascinated  by  the 
great  expenditure  of  force  in  his  manipulation  of  the 
spluttering  pen,  the  girl  followed  the  sprawling  let 
ters  with  her  look  — 

Q.  T.  Kinwydden 

"Residence?"  she  murmured. 

The  pen  hung  for  an  instant  in  suspense.  Then  it 
was  laid  carefully  aside. 

"  If  anybody  asks  you  where  I  come  from,  lady,  you 
can  tell  'em  from  *  all  over  the  West/ ' 

Mariana  jumped  as  the  eyes  were  raised  again. 


A  Queer  Customer 


"I  want  a  room  and  a  bath,  ma'am,"  said  Q.  T. 
Kinwydden.  "Hot  and  cold  water  runnin'  out  of  a 
tap  and  electric  lights  you  can  push  on  and  off  with 
your  trigger  finger,  savvy?" 

The  blond  elevator  boy  had  moved  two  or  three 
steps  closer.  He  had  prominent  eyes,  but  at  the  mo 
ment  they  were  more  than  prominent.  They  bulged. 
His  jaw  hung  loose. 

Mariana  took  down  a  key.  "Room  90,  Bill,"  she 
said.  "The  gentleman's  bag  is  over  there  by  the 
door." 

"I'll  pack  my  own  stuff,  thanks  to  you  just  the 
same,"  said  the  new  guest.  He  walked  with  his  bag 
into  the  elevator.  During  the  ascent  he  shut  his  eyes 
and  clenched  his  hands;  also,  he  murmured  some 
thing  under  his  breath. 

"What  say?"  asked  the  boy. 

"Nothin'  it  would  do  you  any  good  to  hear,  son," 
was  the  answer. 

Bill  disembarked  on  the  fourth  floor,  his  passenger 
stepping  out  with  a  nervousness  exaggerated,  it  would 
seem,  for  his  own  private  amusement. 

"Does  she  stay  there  till  you  get  back?"  he  asked, 
eyeing  the  elevator  as  one  eyes  a  fascinating  enemy. 

Bill  gaped  and  nodded. 

"It's  sure  wonderful." 

The  long  hall  was  carpeted  in  worn  and  faded  red, 
the  walls  needed  repapering,  the  woodwork  needed  re 
painting.  For  that,  Bill's  uniform  needed  renovating, 
and  it  would  not  have  injured  his  blondness  to  shave 
or  to  wash  back  of  his  ears.  The  door  of  Room  90  was 


6  "Q" 

opened  and  a  cubic  square  of  stiffly  furnished  space 
was  offered  to  Q.  T.  Kinwydden's  occupancy. 

"Where's  your  baggage,  sir?"  inquired  Bill. 

The  guest  set  down  his  bag  in  the  middle  of 
the  brown  figured  carpet  and  pointed  at  it.  "Here, 
'  sir,'  "  said  he. 

"Your  trunks,  I  mean,  sir." 

"I'm  agoin'  out  to  catch  me  up  a  trunk  after 
supper,  'sir. "  He  looked  at  Bill.  "You  waitin' 
for  a  tip,  ' sir'?" 

Bill  blushed. 

"All  right,  'sir,'  you're  sure  agoin'  to  capture  one. 
What 's  this?  Two  bits?  Here  you  are,  son  —  for 
your  courage  and  energy  in  runnin'  the  buzz-box." 

Bill  took  the  tip  and  went  out.  A  novel  sensation 
of  shame  possessed  him.  He  wished  he  had  n't  taken 
the  tip,  but  he  could  not  understand  the  cause  for  so 
inexplicable  a  wish.  Bill  rubbed  his  back  hair,  which 
needed  cutting,  and  went  into  the  elevator.  "Queer 
customer,"  he  said  and  sucked  in  his  lips. 

The  customer  did  conduct  himself  queerly  enough 
in  sober  truth.  He  went  quickly  to  the  wall  near  the 
door  after  Bill  had  closed  it,  and  there  he  pressed 
first  a  white  button,  then  a  black,  studying  mean 
while  with  huge  gravity  and  interest  the  alternating 
effect  on  the  globe  in  the  ceiling.  He  did  this  about 
fifty  times.  Then  he  sauntered  into  the  bathroom  and 
turned  the  bathtub  handle  labeled  "Hox."  When  a 
cloud  of  steam  rose  he  shook  his  head. 

"Never  fails!"  he  muttered.  "It's  sure  wonder 
ful." 


A  Queer  Customer 


He  left  the  water  running  and  returned  to  the  bed 
room.  He  raised  a  green  and  shabby  shade  and 
looked  down  on  the  main  street  of  Sluypenkill. 
There  was  a  garage  opposite.  An  automobile  stood  by 
the  curb.  The  street  was  lined  with  hideous  square 
buildings  of  frame  and  brick,  small  hardware,  dry- 
goods  and  stationers'  shops,  a  liberal  sprinkling  of  sa 
loons.  Beyond,  the  roofs  of  the  town  climbed  down 
to  the  broad  and  bright  expanse  of  the  Hudson  River 
and  up  to  the  base  of  a  round  mountain  disfigured  by 
a  funicular  railway.  Across  the  river,  there  was  a 
larger  and  perhaps  an  uglier  town  bristling  with  fac 
tory  chimneys  and  church  steeples.  Q.  T.  Kinwydden 
gazed  for  a  long  time  at  this  prospect,  ending  with  a 
minute  scrutiny  of  the  nearest  saloon,  and  began  to 
whistle  to  himself. 

"It's  a  cross  between  Sugar  City  and  Oily  Corners 
—  and  no  compliment  to  either,"  he  said.  He 
dropped  the  shade  and  prepared  himself  for  a 
bath. 

The  hours  for  dinner  were  printed  on  a  small  card, 
stuck  into  the  mirror  above  the  dressing-table.  At 
about  the  middle  hour,  Kinwydden  appeared  in  the 
lobby.  He  had  walked  down  the  stairs.  He  advanced 
to  the  desk. 

"Can  you  tell  me,  ma'am,"  he  asked,  and  this  time 
he  had  Mariana's  prompt  and  complete  attention, 
" where's  your  handiest  school?" 

She  repeated  his  last  three  words  with  noiseless  mo 
tions  of  her  lips. 

"School  for  learnm'?"  he  explained  patiently. 


8 "Q 

"The  —  the  public  school  is  —  is  just  around  the 
corner,  sir." 

"That  'd  be  about  it,  I  reckon.  Say,  who  can  I  see 
about  the  lessons  you  get  there?" 

"Why  —  why —  "  Mariana  ran  a  pencil  in  and 
out  of  her  front  waves,  "see  about  lessons  —  ?  Why, 
I  guess  —  yes,  Miss  Sherman  would  be  the  one.  She's 
teacher  for  the  third  grade.  She  lives  here  in  the  ho 
tel.  I'll  introduce  you  to  her  after  dinner.  She  and 
Miss  Winters  sit  over  in  the  bay  in  the  dining-room. 
You '11  see  them." 

But  when  Q.  T.  Kinwydden  came  into  the  dining- 
room  and  seated  himself  modestly  and  quickly  at  the 
nearest  empty  table,  he  saw  no  one  but  the  waitress 
that  advanced  upon  him  —  a  tall  young  waitress, 
deep-bosomed  and  dark-eyed,  as  unconscious  of  her 
beauty,  it  appeared,  as  a  young  tree,  moving  in  her 
black-and-white  uniform,  through  a  clatter  of  dishes 
and  orders,  as  though  she  were  walking  through 
some  fairy  forest,  enchanted  and  alone.  A  face  sad 
with  a  romantic  sadness  that  cleared  all  its  lines  and 
contours  of  vulgarity,  subdued  its  vivid  tints  to  a 
veiled  mysterious  glamour  of  remoteness. 

Q's  experience  of  "biscuit-shooters"  was  intimate 
and  fairly  extensive.  They  had  played  the  leading 
feminine  roles  in  most  of  his  contacts  with  civiliza 
tion.  To  his  mind  this  girl  became  the  Queen  of  Bis 
cuit-Shooters.  And  he  spoke  his  mind. 

"By  God!"  he  said,  "if  you  are  n't  the  handsom 
est,  classiest  woman  I  ever  saw." 

She  blushed  vividly  and  her  face  filled  with  charm 
ing  amusement.  "Order,  sir?" 


A  Queer  Customer  9 

"Fetch  me  anything  you  like;  I'll  take  it  lyin' 
down." 

She  brought  him  a  plate  of  cold  thin  tomato  soup. 
By  that  time  he  had  discovered  Miss  Sherman  and 
Miss  Winters  dining  together  in  the  bay  window  of 
the  room.  He  carefully  inspected  them.  They  were 
eating  sadly  and  fastidiously.  One  was  thin  and 
sweet  and  pale.  She  sat  as  though  she  had  a  back 
ache,  and  the  other  was  strong  and  ruddy  with  dim 
ples  and  reddish  curly  hair. 

"I'd  'a'  knowed  them  for  schoolmarms  any 
wheres,"  Kinwydden  confided  to  the  waitress.  "Ain't 
it  funny  how  the  work  earmarks  'em  all  alike?  " 

The  head  waiter,  a  short  squat  man  with  a  pim 
pled  and  perspiring  face,  obviously  disapproved  of  the 
River  Hotel's  latest  guest.  He  dodged  about,  polish 
ing  glasses  angrily  as  though  they  were  weapons  in 
his  armory. 

Kinwydden  lingered  over  his  meal  until  the  school 
teachers  had  finished  theirs.  As  they  passed  his  table, 
he  rippled  quickly  to  his  feet. 

"Ma'am,"  he  said. 

They  both  stopped  and  they  both  crimsoned.  The 
head  waiter  circled  nearer,  making  little  buzzing 
sounds  of  vexation  in  his  throat. 

"  Which  of  you  is  schoolmarm  for  the  third  grade?  " 
asked  Kinwydden  gently.  His  respect  for  them  was 
so  great  and  so  apparent  that  Miss  Sherman  recov 
ered  her  self-possession  and  smiled. 

"I  am,"  she  said.  "Can  I  do  anything  for 
you?" 


10 "Q" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  I'm  seeking  information  about 
school  learnin'." 

Both  ladies  looked  surprised.   "  Come  into  the  sit 
ting-room   out  here,"   said  Miss   Sherman.     "You 
come,  too,  please,  Miss  Winters.    Now"  —  as  they 
all  three  entered  the  stiff  and  varnished  room  - 
"tell  me  just  what  you  want  to  know." 

Q.  T.  Kinwydden  turned  his  extraordinary  eyes 
from  one  lady  to  the  other.  Miss  Sherman  was  sud 
denly  conscious  of  a  warm  sensation  of  motherliness. 
The  young  man  stood  gracefully,  gravely,  shyly,  the 
color  deep  in  his  bronze  cheeks. 

"Readin'  and  writin'  and  arithmetic,"  he  said  in 
his  gentlest  voice. 

He  paused.  Neither  of  his  listeners  spoke. 

"Geography  and  History  and  Poetry  and  Litera- 
choor  —  " 

"Languages  alive  and  dead,"  he  concluded. 

Miss  Sherman  drew  a  long  breath.  Miss  Winters 
had  walked  rather  quickly  over  to  a  window  and 
turned  her  face  away.  Miss  Sherman  took  two  steps 
sideways  and  sat  down.  She  motioned  Q.  T.  Kinwyd 
den  to  another  chair  and  smiled  at  him.  Her  dimples 
deepened. 

"Now  I  think  I  understand,"  she  said.  "You  have 


a  son  —  " 


"  No,  ma'am.  I  'm  a  bachelor.  Must  you  be  a  mar 
ried  man  to  get  in?" 

"Oh  —  Oh,  no!  You  mean  —  you  really  mean, 
Mr.  —  er  —  " 

"Kinwydden." 


A  Queer  Customer  11 

—  er  —  " 

"Kinwydden.  Q.  T.  Kinwydden." 

"Mr.  Kinwydden,  you  mean —  Yourself?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"You  mean  you  want  to  enter  the  public  school  to 
study  all  those  subjects?" 

"Yes,  ma'am."  He  was  leaning  forward  slightly, 
his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  eyes  lifted  anxiously  to 
her.  "Ain't  it  possible?"  he  asked. 

"  W-why  —  I  don't  know,  Mr.  —  er  —  " 

"Kinwydden.  I  sometimes  wish  it  was  easier  my 
self.  It  ain't  rightly  mine.  It  was  wished  onto  me." 
His  smile  was  by  far  the  most  disarming  movement 
that  Miss  Sherman  had  ever  seen  on  any  human 
countenance.  It  broke  up  the  rather  set  and  grim 
gravity  of  his  face,  took  a  dozen  hard  years  from 
his  age,  and  showed  a  pleasant  row  of  white 
and  even  teeth.  It  was  like  the  laying  by  of  a 
piece  of  defensive  armor,  perhaps  the  lifting  of  a 
visor. 

"Well,  Mr.  Kinwydden,  it  might  be  possible.  But 
I  really  would  n't  advise  it.  I  surmise  you  have  not 
been  able  to  complete  your  education?" 

"I  have  n't  been  able  to  begin  it,  ma'am." 

"  Well,  it  seems  to  me  better,  if  you  can  afford  it,  to 
take  private  lessons  from  a  teacher." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  af eared  of  the  little  boys,"  smiled 
Kinwydden. 

"No,  that  is  n't  what  I  mean.  I  think  you'd  learn 
better  and  quicker.  You  see,  a  mature  mind  gets 
over  the  ground  much  faster  —  " 


12 "Q" 

"Mine  won't,  ma'am.  It'll  be  all  slide  rock  and 
down  timber  to  me  —  learnin'." 

"But  if  it's  going  to  be  harder  for  you  than  for  a 
child,  then  even  more  advisable  I  should  think  it  for 
you  to  have  a  private  tutor  —  or"  —  a  sudden  illu 
mination  brightened  her  kind  and  dimpled  counte 
nance.  She  turned  to  Miss  Winters.  "Oh,  Grace," 
she  cried,  "why  not  a  pupil  for  Miss  Grinscoombe?" 

There  was  a  sudden  silence  in  the  room.  On  Miss 
Winters 's  part  it  was  caused  by  her  view  of  Kinwyd- 
den's  face,  which  had  turned  white.  Before  she  spoke, 
it  blazed. 

"Miss  Heloise  Grinscoombe?"  he  asked  slowly. 

There  was  a  flurry  of  apology.  "Oh,  no,  indeed. 
Of  course  not!  Indeed,  no!  Not  Miss  Heloise  Grins 
coombe.  Not  Miss  Selda  Grinscoombe's  adopted 
niece.  Not  the  Miss  Grinscoombe  out  at  Grinscoombe 
Manor.  No.  No.  No.  Hardly  would  she  be  looking 
for  a  pupil." 

"My  mistake,"  said  the  inquirer.  His  glow  had 
left  him  and  he  had  lowered  his  eyes.  "I  did  n't  know 
there  was  two  of  'em." 

"But  you  know  the  Miss  Grinscoombe?"  Miss 
Winters  questioned  curiously. 

The  extraordinary  eyes  kept  themselves  hidden 
behind  rather  densely  lashed  lids.  "Yes,  ma'am." 
The  voice  was  gentle  enough  to  be  almost  a  whisper. 

There  was  a  feeling  in  the  room  as  of  some  emotion 
beating  powerfully  against  a  solid  wall.  Miss  Sher 
man  cleared  her  throat. 

"This  is  quite  another  Miss  Grinscoombe,"  she 


A  Queer  Customer  13 

said,  "though  I  believe  she  is  distantly  connected. 
She  is,  however,  exceedingly  cultured,  but  very  poor. 
She  is  anxious  to  get  a  pupil.  Lack  of  a  diploma  pre 
vents  her  from  getting  a  salaried  position  in  —  " 
"But  look  here,  I  want  a  teacher  with  one  of  them, 


ma'am." 


"But,  Mr.  Kinwydden  —  there,  I  have  it  now! 
She  knows  a  thousand  times  more  than  any  diploma- 
made  teacher  I  have  ever  met.  She  is  a  real  little 
lady—" 

"Then  she  won't  do."  Q.  T.  Kinwydden  brought 
down  a  marble  hard  fist  on  a  marble  hard  palm.  "I 
want  a  man.  I  want  some  one  to  scare  me  into 
learnin'.  I  want  the  quirt  —  or  somethin'  about 
equally  urgin'  —  savvy?" 

Miss  Sherman  pleaded.  "Won't  you  please  go  and 
see  Miss  Grinscoombe  first?  I  believe  she'll  be  able 
to  keep  you  in  order.  Let  me  write  her  a  note.  And 
I  '11  tell  you  where  she  lives.  It  can't  do  any  harm  for 
you  to  see  her.  She  does  need  the  money  so!" 

"But,"  grumbled  the  young  man,  "she  don't  need 
the  money  near  as  bad  as  I  need  the  learnin'.  Well, 
ma'am,  if  you  say  so,  I'll  go  and  give  her  a  look  over 
and  let  her  give  me  one.  I  reckon  that  will  be 
enough."  He  rose  and  looked  at  Miss  Sherman  and 
smiled.  "Ain't  I  big  enough  for  the  third  grade?" 
he  asked  her,  winningly. 

"Ah!"  she  smiled,  "I  wish  you  were  small  enough. 
I  think  I'd  like  to  teach  you.  Come,  Grace,  I  must 
get  through  these  papers  before  nine  o'clock." 

"Good-night  to  you,"  he  said.  "And  thanks.  I've 


14  "Q" 

made  you  lots  of  trouble."  But  at  the  door  she  found 
him  close  beside  her.  He  laid  a  finger  lightly  on  her  arm. 

"Where  did  you  say  —  she  lived?  I  mean,  Miss 
Heloise?" 

"I  did  n't  say."  Miss  Sherman's  tone  was  a  trifle 
sharper. 

"The  — the  Manners?" 

"Oh,  Grinscoombe  Manor.  It's  five  miles  out  of 
town  along  the  river  road.  But  —  you  understand  — 
that  is  not  the  Miss  Grinscoombe  I  was  speaking  of." 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  understand.  North  of  the  town?" 

"Yes."  She  went  decidedly  away. 

Up  in  her  room  she  turned  and  opened  the  big  eyes 
of  her  astonishment  upon  her  friend. 

"Grace!  Who  and  what  is  he?" 

Grace  was  laughing  heartily.  "Oh,  he  has  helped 
my  backache  so!  Louise!" 

"But  why  did  he  question  me  so  closely  about 
Miss  Grinscoombe?  It  really  worries  me." 

"Perhaps  he  knows  her." 

"Perhaps!"  The  tone  was  a  masterpiece  of  school- 
marm  irony. 

"  And  what  a  name  —  Kinwydden! " 

"It  sounds  Welsh." 

"And  what,"  cried  the  school-teacher  in  an  ascend 
ing  key  —  "and  what  do  you  suppose  the  'Q.  T.' 
stands  for?" 

"I  can't  imagine.  He's  a  pleasant-looking  man, 
is  n't  he?" 

"Pleasant!"  cried  the  dimpled  one;  "he  is  the  most 
extravagantly  handsome  young  man  I've  ever  seen 
in  all  my  life." 


CHAPTER  II 

SIR  SYDNEY  GRINSCOOMBE  SUFFERS  AN  INSULT 

"HAND  me  a  cigarette,  won't  you,  Pom?" 

The  young  man  addressed  —  a  pale,  small,  curly 
young  man  with  light  and  prominent  eyes  —  rose 
obediently  from  a  rug  before  a  dancing  fire  and  chose 
a  cigarette  from  a  silver  box  on  a  very  solid  mahogany 
table.  It  was  an  old  mahogany  table  and  the  box  was 
old  silver.  The  light  of  the  fire  seemed  to  have  sunk 
deep  into  the  surface  of  the  polished  wood  and  the 
polished  metal. 

"Excuse  me,  Katrina,"  murmured  the  girl  who  had 
made  the  request.  She  was  drawing  delicately  at  the 
little  white  cylinder,  to  which  Pom  applied  a  match. 
"I  did  n't  mean  to  interrupt  your  story.  Goon.  I'm 
horribly  shocked  and  Pom  is  blushing  most  becom- 
ingly." 

Katrina,  who  sat  in  a  large  chair  on  the  other  side 
of  the  fire,  was  small  and  dark  and  sparkling.  She  was 
dressed  above  the  waist  in  a  single  fold  of  purple  tulle 
above  which  her  young  shoulders  and  arms  were 
startlingly  marooned.  The  young  man  on  the  floor 
beside  her  was  toasting  marshm allows  with  one  hand. 
With  the  other  he  caressed  Katrina's  silken  ankle 
where  it  was  hidden  by  a  length  of  floating  tulle. 
There  were  half  a  dozen  other  young  people  about  the 
hearth.  They  were  sprawled  against  cushions  and 
propped  against  chairs.  There  was  a  good  deal  of 


16 "Q" 

floating  tulle  about  and  several  very  pretty  and  well- 
cared-for  faces.  The  voices  were  at  once  eager  and 
ennuyes,  the  faces  were  all  cool  and  composed,  to  hide 
the  natural  quick  gayety  and  animation  which  never 
theless  electrified  the  air.  Only  the  young  hostess,  en 
throned  a  trifle  aloof  from  the  group  in  a  very  soft 
deep  chair,  was  truly  overshadowed  by  the  cloud  of 
life.  Her  lips  were  sullen  and  her  eyes  heavy.  But, 
even  under  the  cloud,  she  lay  there  along  the  length 
of  the  lounging-chair  like  a  shining  crescent  moon. 
She  was  very  fair  and  very  smooth,  her  clinging  dress 
was  of  silver  cloth.  Her  long  narrow  feet  and  ankles 
were  dressed  in  silver.  There  was  a  half -moon  of  bril 
liants  in  her  hair.  She  had  a  face  of  so  fine  and  clear 
and  chiseled  a  perfection  that  it  drew  probing  look 
after  look  to  satisfy  an  inevitable  incredulity.  The 
lips  were  pink  with  long  proud  curves,  the  nose  was  a 
trifle  pinched,  the  eyes  were  narrow  and  serene,  of  a 
clear,  greenish  gray,  the  brows  just  penciled  in  golden 
brown;  the  hair,  all  sleek  and  trained  and  groomed, 
fitted  close  about  the  small  head  like  a  dark  golden 
helmet. 

Katrina  went  on  with  her  story.  The  climax  was 
hailed  by  convulsive  laughter.  One  of  the  youths 
rolled  on  the  floor.  One  of  the  girls  leaned  over  to  in 
spect  her  marshmallow.  This  was  to  hide  the  shamed 
crimson  of  her  face.  The  young  Diana  in  the  long 
chair  did  not  laugh  at  all.  Neither  did  she  blush.  She 
lifted  her  eyelids  and  inspected  the  raconteuse. 

"You're  getting  on,  Katrina,"  she  said.  "Quite 
soon  you'll  graduate  into  Mrs.  Fayre's  class." 


Sir  Sydney  Grinscoombe  Suffers  an  Insult     17 

"It's  fun  to  make  the  boys  blush,"  said  Katrina. 
"Look  at  Pom." 

"I'm  not  blushing,"  said  that  youth,  who  indeed 
was  as  colorless  as  though  he  had  been  permanently 
faded  in  a  strong  sun.  "But  I  tell  you  what  —  you 
know  —  Mrs.  Fayre,  now  —  !  Don't  go  as  far  as  that, 
Katrina.  She's  a  bit  too  strong." 

"Of  all  the  unblushing  matrons!"  said  another 
marshmallow-toaster  of  an  age  rather  more  advanced 
than  that  of  his  companions. 

Diana  gave  a  little  malicious  ripple  of  laughter. 
"I've  seen  Mrs.  Fayre  blush,"  she  said. 

There  rose  a  chorus  of  disbelief. 

"Yes,  really.  It  was  out  West  last  summer,  when 
we  were  on  that  hunting  trip  —  Tommy  and  Mrs. 
Fayre  and  the  Doones  and  I.  We  used  to  sit  up  all 
hours  by  the  camp-fire.  It  was  splendid  —  but  Mrs. 
Fayre  used  to  spoil  the  beauty  of  the  night  by  telling 
her  awful  stories.  The  guides  would  sit  and  listen 
with  their  eyes  on  the  ground.  One  night,  though, 
one  of  them  did  speak.  He'd  been  lying  with  his  chin 
in  his  hands.  He  sat  up  and  looked  straight  at  Mrs. 
Fayre.  She  began  to  giggle  —  you  know  her  way  — 
and  say,  'Isn't  that  funny?  Isn't  that  funny?'  — 
and  Kew  just  spoke  up  gravely  and  slowly,  the  way 
those  Westerners  speak,  with  a  sort  of  drag.  'You 
must  excuse  me,  lady,  for  not  laughin'  any,  but  I 
heard  that  story  years  ago  in  a  cow-camp  when  I  was 
a  boy. '  "  Lelo  Grinscoombe  had  given  a  remarkable 
imitation  of  the  drawl  with  its  keen  edge  of  irony  that 
left  a  cut  across  the  silence.  Katrina  moved  un 
easily. 


18 "Q" 

44 And  she  blushed?" 

"Yes.  She  blushed  all  over  her  face  and  neck  and 
about  five  minutes  later  she  slunk  off  to  her  tent  and 
went  to  bed." 

"Served  her  damn  right,"  said  the  older  young 
man.  "That's  what  they  need  —  that  sort." 

"Was  his  name  really  Kew?"  asked  Katrina  in  a 
rather  meek  voice. 

"That's  what  they  called  him."  Lelo  had  relapsed 
into  languor  again.  She  blinked  lazily  at  the  smoke 
of  her  expiring  cigarette. 

Then  Pom  dropped  a  marshmallow  into  the  fire  and 
there  was  a  flurry  of  rescue  and  reproach.  In  the 
midst  of  it  a  young  and  rosy  manservant  stepped 
softly  into  the  room,  came  to  Lelo's  chair,  and  handed 
her  a  slip  of  paper. 

"A  —  er  —  gentleman  to  see  you,  miss.  You 
would  be  expecting  him,  he  said.  He  had  no  card, 
miss,  and  I  could  n't  seem  to  catch  his  name.  So  he 
wrote  it  down  for  you,  miss." 

Heloise  Grinscoombe  bent  her  golden  helmet  and 
her  crescent  of  brilliants  over  the  paper. 

"Q.  T.  Kinwydden,"  she  read  to  herself  and  looked 
up.  The  boredom  and  the  sullenness  had  left  her 
face,  which  was  quite  radiant  with  surprise,  amuse 
ment,  and  a  sort  of  fantastic  dismay. 

"Where  is  he,  James?" 

"In  the  South  room,  miss." 

"Very  well.  I'll  see  him.  Tell  him  I'll  be  there." 

She  stood  up  to  a  slim  tall  height. 

"I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,"  she  said,  smiling  down 


Sir  Sydney  Grinscoombe  Suffers  an  Insult     19 

at  the  expectant  faces.  "Then  I'll  have  something 
amusing  to  tell  you.  As  Mrs.  Fayre  would  say  — 
'Is  n't  it  funny?  Is  n't  it  funny?'" 

She  moved  slowly  out  from,  the  circle  of  fire  glow 
through  the  large  dimness  of  the  room  and  shut  the 
door.  Curiosity  was  left  to  toast  its  marshmallows. 

Facing  Q.  T.  Kinwydden,  where  he  stood  waiting 
in  the  South  room,  there  hung  on  the  wall  above  the 
fireplace  a  portrait  of  Heloise  Grinscoombe's  great- 
great  and  many  greats-grandfather.  The  portrait  was 
well  copied  from  the  original  in  the  London  National 
Gallery.  The  gentleman  wore  an  enormous  curled 
and  powdered  wig,  a  lace  cravat,  a  wine-colored  coat, 
and  long  ruffles  over  hands  that  rested  on  the  golden 
knob  of  a  stick.  Wedge-shaped  and  pale  between  the 
masses  of  his  wig,  his  face  looked  down  —  a  hand 
some  and  unpleasant  countenance.  He  had  narrow 
green-gray  eyes,  and  sneering  lips.  There  were  lines 
of  dissipation  and  ill-humor  about  his  mouth.  The 
brush  that  had  painted  him  must  have  been  dipped 
into  an  understanding  hatred.  The  sitter  seemed  to 
know  this  and  to  be  rather  ironically  amused.  Kin- 
wydden's  observation,  being  quickly  done  with  the 
low-ceilinged  room  and  its  delicate  old  gilded  and 
brocaded  furniture,  centered  on  this  portrait.  Pres 
ently  he  strode  close  and  stared  straight  up  into  the 
contemptuous  eyes. 

"You  d d  curly  "  —  he  used  a  favorite  Western 

epithet,  "  I  '11  be  derned  if  you  ain't  a  man!  "  A  fan 
tastic  hatred  possessed  him.  Deliberately  he  lifted 


20 "Q" 

his  fingers  and  snapped  them  close  before  the  long  and 
delicate  nose.  "I  ain't  af eared  of  you,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  light  sound  in  the  hall  and  Kinwydden 
faced  about  and  straightened.  He  crushed  his  soft 
hat  behind  him  in  his  hands.  He  was  pale  under  the 
eternal  brown  of  his  Western  sun.  Except  for  that, 
no  one  would  have  guessed  at  the  terrifying  labor  of 
his  pulses.  In  the  slight  grace  of  his  surroundings  he 
looked  especially  tall  and  grim,  stately,  not  unimpres 
sive.  The  long  gold-colored  curtains  parted  and  He- 
loise  came  quickly  toward  him,  holding  out  her  hand. 

"Why,  Kew,"  she  said  in  her  light  cool  voice; 
"this  is  the  most  delightful  and  thrilling  surprise." 

His  hand  closed  like  warm  iron  over  hers.  He 
looked  at  her  with  no  change  in  his  mask.  But,  for  a 
moment,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  speak.  He  was 
struck  breathless  by  her  beauty.  He  had  never  seen 
her  like  this.  She  had  looked  in  camp,  in  her  riding- 
breeches  and  flannel  shirt,  her  hair  a  double  lump  of 
gold  on  her  neck,  a  much  younger  and  less  consider 
able  person.  She  had  had  a  franker  and  more  simple 
air.  Her  beauty  had  been  more  native,  more  homely, 
more  of  the  woods.  There  had  not  been  this  long 
grace  of  step  and  carriage.  Now,  his  imagination 
leaped  to  the  memory  of  a  bright  new  moon  shining 
above  his  camp-fire  just  silvering  the  tops  of  the  firs. 

She  drew  away  her  hand  and  he  got  back  his  voice 
and  his  smile,  both  of  them  badly  shaken. 

"It  had  n't  ought  to  surprise  you  any  —  me  bein' 
here,"  he  said.  "I  meant  what  I  told  you." 

Heloise  sat  down  and  he  too,  obeying  her  gesture, 


Sir  Sydney  Grinscoombe  Suffers  an  Insult     21 

drew  up  one  of  the  gilded  chairs.  He  kept  his  eyes 
bravely  upon  her,  but  there  was  an  air  about  him  now 
of  a  wary  wild  thing  half -conscious  of  a  trap. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  remember  everything  you  told 
me  —  out  there  in  the  hills!  Oh,  Kew"  —  dropping 
her  determined  and  mocking  lightness  —  "  was  n't  it 
wonderful !  How  I  wish  we  were  there  now  —  up  in 
the  mountains  by  that  stream  —  the  camp-fire  — 
and  the  stars  —  and  the  horses  cropping!" 

"I  wish  we  was  too,"  he  said.  His  throat  was  con 
tracted  by  the  bitter  intensity  of  his  wish.  Out  there 
he  had  been  master,  he  had  been  dominant,  the 
leader,  the  one  who  knew.  It  had  seemed  natural 
enough  there,  all  that  he  felt.  And  to  her  it  had  evi 
dently  seemed  not  too  unnatural.  They  were,  after 
all,  as  she  had  told  him,  man  and  woman.  Kinwyd- 
den  braced  himself.  He  must  not  give  her  one 
glimpse  of  his  profound  misgivings.  They  could  not 
materially  affect  the  iron  of  his  resolve,  but  they 
might  disturb  his  forces  woefully. 

"Well,  ma'am,"  he  said,  and  he  smiled  coolly 
enough,  "I  have  n't  forgotten  anything  you  said  out 
there.  And  that 's  the  reason  I  have  come  trailin'  you 
to  Sluypenkill." 

"It  was  sweet  of  you,"  she  smiled.  "You're  on 
your  way  —  ?" 

"Nowheres.   I'm  here.   I've  made  camp." 

She  lifted  her  eyebrows  so  that  the  crescent  of  bril 
liants  moved  and  glittered.  "Made  camp?  Here?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  At  the  River  Hotel.  I'm  agoin'  to 
get  that  edication  you  told  me  was  the  only  thing  that 


22 "Q" 

stood  atween  us  —  you  and  me  —  a  man  and   a 


woman." 


Heloise  moved  slightly  in  her  chair.  She  seemed, 
from  the  look  of  her,  to  be  selecting  her  answer  as 
carefully  as  though  it  had  been  an  edged  tool.  Such 
tools,  however,  have  two  edges. 

"Kew,"  she  said,  "  there  is  one  thing  I  have  not  for 
gotten.  That  is,  that  you  saved  my  life." 

He  flushed  deeply.  "I  don't  think  I  quite  like  you 
rememberin'  that  —  just  now,"  he  said. 

The  quickness  and  shrewdness  of  his  intuition 
startled  her.  She  had  taken  it  for  granted  that  all  the 
skill  would  be  on  her  side  in  this  game  to  which  she 
had  —  in  the  idleness  of  a  forest  holiday  —  lightly 
challenged  him,  but  to  which  he  had  bent  his  will 
with  a  grimness  that  had  begun  now  seriously  to 
frighten  her. 

"I  could  n't  possibly  forget  it,  Kew  —  now  or  any 
other  time.  Besides,  I've  promised  you  my  friend 
ship." 

"Yes,  ma'am.  You  did  promise  me  your  friend 
ship.  But  that  was  quite  a  ways  back.  You  have  to 
skip  some  to  get  back  to  that.  Still,  I'm  not  askin' 
no  more  from  you  —  as  yet,  ma'am." 

She  smiled,  though  her  face  was  scarlet.  "  I  'm  glad. 
I  should  love  to  be  your  friend." 

"But  you  have  got  to  keep  rememberin',  Miss 
Grinscoombe,  that  I  am  not  pledged  to  that  trail. 
Somewhere,  I  turn  off." 

"  It 's  good  to  hear  you  talk,  Kew.  It  takes  me  back 
to  last  October.  So  you  're  going  to  stay  at  the  River 


Sir  Sydney  Grinscoombe  Suffers  an  Insult     23 

Hotel.  Is  n't  it  an  impossible  place?  It  looks  so.  And 
who 's  going  to  give  you  your  education?  "  She  added 
maliciously,  "Besides  me." 

This  brought  from  him  a  narrowed  look  and  a 
flush.  "Yes,  ma'am.  That's  sure  the  truth.  You'll 
be  givin'  me  the  biggest  part  of  my  edication."  He 
smiled  grimly.  "I  can  take  a  whole  lot  of  punish 
ment  from  you  —  if  it's  agoin'  to  help  any." 

"I  am  not  making  any  promises  but  one  of  friend 
ship,"  she  warned  him. 

"I  know  that,  Miss  Grinscoombe.  But,  all  the 
same,  I  '11  be  thankful  for  any  help.  It 's  all  slide  rock 
and  down  timber  to  me  —  this  edication  business." 

"But  why  should  I  want  to  help  you?"  she  asked. 
It  was  as  though  she  flicked  him  with  a  cruel  little 
whip. 

He  fixed  upon  her  a  hard  and  brilliant  gaze.  "Be 
cause  you  kind  of  —  do,"  he  drawled  at  his  gentlest. 

She  blushed  again  faintly.  It  was  true,  she  did  — 
want  to  help  him  —  as  an  experiment?  As  a  danger 
ous  game?  Or  for  some  deeper  and  more  human  rea 
son? 

"Very  well,"  she  admitted.  "I  do.  I  want  to  see 
what  you  can  make  out  of  yourself.  It's  rather  splen 
did  of  you.  You  have  everything  against  you,  of 


course." 


He  had  turned  his  eyes  to  the  portrait.  "Say,"  he 
asked  her  suddenly,  "who  is  that  feller  —  with  the 
hair?" 

"Sir  Sydney  Grinscoombe  —  my  great-great-great- 
great-grandfather.  ' ' 


24 "Q" 

"Don't  he  look  it,  though?  Don't  he  fancy  him 
self?  Well,  ma'am"  —  his  eyes  came  back  to  her 
without  explanation  of  their  excursion  —  "if  you'll 
give  me  some  trainin',  I'll  sure  be  grateful." 

She  considered  him;  her  young  smile  was  rather 
mocking.  "I  wonder,"  she  said,  "if  you'd  stand  for 
it." 

He  did  not  flinch,  though  the  dread  in  his  eyes 
was  perfectly  apparent  to  her. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  promised  her  and  smiled  a  fine 
grim  little  smile. 

"Very  well.  The  first  suggestion  I  would  make  is 
that  you  go  to  a  good  tailor  and  get  some  real  clothes 
and  have  the  right  kind  of  a  hair-cut." 

He  was  scarlet,  but  kept  his  eyes  up  bravely.  "Yes, 
ma'am,  I'll  do  that.  And  thank  you  kindly." 

"You  see,  when  I  was  in  the  West,  I  dressed  for  the 
West.  Now,  you're  in  the  East  and  —  " 

"  Yes  —  ma'am,  I  savvy.  I  had  a  notion  these  was 
first-class.  The  man  in  the  Chicago  store  told  me  so. 
It  was  a  classy -looking  store  too." 

"They're  awful.  I'll  give  you  the  name  of  a 
tailor,"  said  Heloise  gravely.  "If  you  want  to  spend 
the  money?  " 

'  Yes,  ma'am.  I  'm  aimin'  to  pay  for  my  edica- 
tion." 

"Here  endeth  the  first  lesson,"  she  smiled.  The 
quotation  missed  him  completely,  as  he  had  never 
seen  the  inside  of  a  church.  But  he  too  smiled,  and 
valorously. 

"Well,  Miss  Grinscoombe,  didn't  I  take  it  lyin' 
down?" 


Sir  Sydney  Grinscoombe  Suffers  an  Insult     25 

"  You  did.  You  're  a  good  sport.  Now,  Kew,  listen. 
I  've  a  party  of  friends  in  there  waiting  for  me.  Won't 
you  let  me  call  you  up  and  arrange  for  a  nice  quiet 
friendly  talk  some  time  when  I'm  free?  I  want 
you"  —  her  eyes  gleamed  mirthfully  —  "to  meet  my 
aunt." 

He  said  nothing.  He  had  risen  and  was  looking  at 
her  fixedly. 

"Oh,"  she  said  with  quickness,  "of  course  I'd  love 
you  to  meet  my  friends.  But  this  is  —  a  —  er  —  a 
sort  of  club.  It  would  n't  be  any  fun  for  you." 

"I  savvy.  Well,  good-night  to  you,  Miss  Grins 
coombe." 

A  moment  later,  he  was  alone  out  in  the  damp 
chilliness  of  the  May  night.  He  found  his  way  down 
the  long  straight  poplar-shadowed  driveway  to  the 
stone  gateposts  and  turned  resolutely  down  the  road 
town  wards.  The  lights  gleamed  from  across  the  river 
in  a  double  row.  A  train  rumbled  below  the  steep 
bank.  Dogs  were  barking  here  and  there.  A  motor 
glared  upon  him  and  hummed  into  darkness  again. 
He  walked  fast,  his  head  down,  his  hands  tightened 
into  fists,  his  teeth  clenched. 

"It's  agoin'  to  hurt,"  he  thought.  "It's  agoin'  to 
hurt  bad.  But"  —  he  flung  up  his  chin  —  "by  God! 
I'll  win.  A  woman  and  a  man.  A  woman  and  a  man. 

She  said  so  herself.  You  d curly  —  ! "  He  was 

speaking  to  the  gentleman  with  the  curled  wig  whose 
face  seemed  to  be  painted  in  phosphorescence  against 
his  eyelids.  There  was  a  cruel  resemblance  to  He- 
loise  which  Kinwydden  refused  to  recognize. 


26 "Q" 

Presently  he  relaxed,  stopped  to  roll  and  light  a 
cigarette.  With  the  familiar  comforter  between  his 
lips,  he  swung  more  lightly  on  his  way.  Now  he  was 
smiling  a  little. 

"You're  a  plumb  fool,  Q.  T.,"  was  his  conclusion. 
And  he  began  to  call  himself  quaint  and  quite  horri 
fying  names. 


CHAPTER  III 

CHIVALRY 

TRUE  to  her  promise,  Heloise  sent  her  sartorial  in 
formation,  and  Q,  in  search  of  fashion,  betook  him 
self  after  his  chastening  introduction  to  Sir  Sydney, 
to  New  York  and  walked,  as  unsuspecting  a  morsel  as 
possible,  into  its  maw.  First  he  was  duly  robbed  by 
Heloise's  recommended  tailor,  barber,  and  haber 
dasher;  then,  self-conscious  and  elated,  secretly  grin 
ning  at  his  own  splendor,  he  strolled  forth  into  the 
quick-stepping  Fifth  Avenue  crowd.  He  walked  with 
a  cowboy's  rhythmic  step,  and,  as  the  man  inside  the 
clothes  radiated  originality,  he  attracted  more  atten 
tion  than  he  guessed.  Q  liked  New  York.  It  stirred 
and  stimulated  him.  Shop-windows,  women,  motors, 
towering  cliffs  of  stone,  the  canyons  that  sent  in  their 
streams  of  trucks  and  taxi-cabs  and  hurrying  trav 
elers  to  the  great  rivers  of  traffic  —  every  one  of 
these  aspects  hurried  his  blood.  A  man  who  loiters 
and  looks  is  a  man  who  courts  adventure.  Q's  tem 
perament  was  naturally  a  lightning  conductor.  From 
the  revolving  glass  door  of  a  large  store  there  stepped 
out  a  slim  and  tall  lady  in  furs,  a  sumptuous  lady, 
white-faced  and  yellow-haired  if  the  two  waved  spec 
imens  above  her  ears  were  to  be  trusted;  as  she  trod 
past  Q,  just  glancing  at  him  with  monkey-brown 
eyes,  he  saw  a  smartly  dressed  youth  slide  a  hand  into 
the  loop  of  her  shopping-bag  and  so  cleverly  relieve 


28 "Q" 

her  of  it  that  she  did  not  so  much  as  feel  its  absence. 
The  youth,  however,  was  smitten  by  prompt  justice 
—  a  bolt  from  the  blue.  He  slid  several  yards  along 
the  pavement,  and  Q,  hardly  breathing  more  rapidly, 
relieved  him  of  his  booty  and  returned  it  to  its  owner. 

There  was  a  quick  assembling  of  an  appreciative 
crowd,  the  thief  was  put  into  the  hands  of  the  law, 
and  Q,  glowing  with  unexpected  conspicuousness, 
gave  his  odd  name  to  the  authorities,  who  made  much 
of  its  oddity,  as  did  the  crowd,  and,  turning  to  re 
ceive  his  thanks  from  the  furred  lady,  found  that  she 
had  gone.  This  hurt  his  feelings.  But  it  ought  to 
have  warned  him  past  any  danger  of  ensuing  folly. 
What  happened  next  was  so  completely  his  own  fault 
that  it  could  hardly  be  called  a  happening;  emphati 
cally  New  York  was  not  to  blame. 

Q  lunched  at  Delmonico's  because,  even  in  the  re 
motest  West,  that  restaurant,  in  the  mind  of  cowboy 
and  ranchman,  still  stands  for  all  that  can  be  im 
agined  of  metropolitan  fashion  and  gastronomical  de 
light.  He  placed  himself  on  a  chair  that  faced  the  en 
trance  door,  as  though  he  were  waiting  for  a  lunch 
companion,  and  there  he  studied  the  rites  of  restau 
rant  procedure  until,  feeling  mastery,  he  rose,  checked 
what  should  be  checked,  tipped  who  should  be 
tipped,  and  bought  himself  a  small  table  not  too  near 
the  music  and  pleasantly  near  an  open  window. 
There  he  studied  first  the  menu,  consulting  gravely 
with  his  waiter,  then,  less  concernedly,  his  surround 
ings.  At  the  nearest  table,  with  her  back  to  him,  sat 
the  sumptuous  lady  with  furs  and  blonde  hair.  She 


Chivalry  29 


was  lunching  with  a  man,  better  dressed  even  than  Q 
and  less  conscious  of  it.  He  seemed,  in  fact,  to  be 
conscious  of  very  little  in  his  own  personality  and  to 
care  not  at  all  what  impression  he  might  be  making 
on  the  world  at  large.  He  did  not  look  like  a  man  who 
probes  any  deeper  than  a  mirror  surface  into  his  own 
consciousness.  He  was,  however,  interested,  in  some 
fashion,  in  the  sumptuous  lady.  Q  had  no  business  to 
listen  to  the  conversation  at  this  table,  and,  having 
listened,  he  had  less  business  to  resent  it.  No  one  was 
complaining  of  his  own  somewhat  unusual  manipula 
tion  of  forks  and  spoons  nor  of  his  filial  attitude  to 
ward  the  waiter.  Nevertheless,  Q  listened.  He  felt 
that  Fate  must  have  meant  something  by  its  mis 
chievous  trick  of  coincidence. 

The  man  was  talking.  His  glabrous,  edgeless  voice 
flowed  over  the  woman  and  Q  began  to  feel  that  it 
would  cling  to  her.  Q  had  heard  plenty  of  vile  con 
versation,  he  had  heard  filthy  epithets  such  as  this 
speaker  would  probably  be  incapable  of  imagining,  but 
he  had  never  heard  a  man,  sane,  sober,  decently  clad, 
so  deliberately  insult  a  delicately  nurtured  woman.  She 
sat  very  still;  he  could  only  see  her  back,  except  when, 
by  turning  his  head  a  fraction,  he  consulted  a  reflec 
tion,  but  this  told  him  that  she  was  cool-featured, 
slim,  every  detail  of  her  perfectly  chosen  and  ar 
ranged.  Her  face  had  reddened  lips,  her  hair  was  prob 
ably  doctored,  but  she  was  a  gentlewoman,  or  what 
in  a  democratic  country  passes  for  one;  a  married 
woman,  for  her  left  hand  resting  on  the  table  bore  a 
plain  band  smothered  in  a  body-guard  of  jewels.  She 


30 "Q" 

listened  to  the  man  and  gave  no  sign  of  anger,  only 
that  Q  saw  her  moisten  her  painted  lips. 

When  he  had  seen  this  little  betraying  action  more 
than  twice,  and  when,  under  a  crescendo  of  sarcasm, 
she  flinched,  Q  found  himself  being  unwillingly 
dragged  out  of  his  seat.  God  knows,  he  did  n't  want 
to  make  a  scene,  God  knows  he  hated  a  row  as  any 
peaceful  cowboy  hates  it,  God  knows  it  was  all  none 
of  his  business  and  the  West  hates  a  busybody,  but 
God  knows,  too,  that  no  man  with  real  blood  in  his 
body  could  sit  still  and  suffer  a  woman  to  be  so 
shamefully  entreated.  Besides,  he  had  already  res 
cued  her  purse;  was  n't  her  pride  of  more  importance 
to  her? 

White  with  discomfort,  Q  presented  himself  before 
the  large-bodied,  sleek-headed  disturber  of  his  peace. 

"I'm  right  sorry  to  butt  in,"  he  said,  "but  I  can't 
let  a  lady  be  spoken  to  thisaway  in  my  hearing." 
And,  as  the  man  clattered  suddenly  to  his  feet,  Q 
struck. 

They  were  forcibly  torn  apart  a  few  seconds  later 
by  a  mob  of  white-lipped  waiters.  Q,  having  satisfied 
honor,  was  ready  to  defend  his  action  and  to  explain 
himself  —  he  had  opened  his  mouth  to  do  so  when 
all  virtue  was  taken  out  of  him  by  the  object  of  his 
chivalry.  She  stood,  no  whiter  than  before,  her  lips 
as  red,  a  queer,  half-amused,  half-disgusted  smile  in 
her  monkey -brown  eyes. 

"He  simply  for  no  reason  in  the  world  attacked  my 
husband,"  she  said  quite  clearly  and  rather  loud;  "1 
think  he  must  be  out  of  his  mind." 


Chivalry  31 


Q  wilted.  His  defense  died.  He  was,  it  would  seem, 
about  to  be  placed  under  arrest.  A  policeman  had 
been  summoned.  It  was  an  intensely  uncomfortable 
situation  and  the  eyes  of  diverted,  disgusted,  and  de 
lighted  lunchers  glittered  upon  him  unbearably. 

Q's  eyes  turned  from  face  to  face,  not  beseechingly, 
but  with  a  puzzled  sort  of  desperation.  He  wanted 
pretty  badly  just  then  to  see  some  of  the  boys.  There 
was  Shorty,  for  instance  —  Shorty  would  make  quick 
work  of  that  head  waiter.  He  was  reminded  of  a  cer 
tain  incident  at  the  bar  of  Stony.  That  had  been  a 
tight  hole,  if  you  like.  He  struggled  for  the  philoso 
phy  of  past  experience.  Well,  he'd  spent  more  than 
one  night  in  the  pen  for  riotous  skylarking.  It 
would  n't  be  so  bad  when  he  was  once  out  of  Del- 
monico's.  , 

Seeking  Shorty,  or  a  reminder  of  him,  he  saw  that  a 
face  had  emerged  from  the  crowd,  a  face  with  some 
sort  of  different  and  definite  intention  toward  him. 
It  belonged  to  a  slim,  quick-moving  young  man  of 
assured  bearing.  He  came  to  the  head  waiter  and 
touched  his  arm. 

"I  know  this  gentleman"  —  it  was  the  voice  of  a 
man  who  takes  quick  control  of  an  emergency  — 
"and  I  will  make  myself  responsible  for  him.  I  saw 
what  happened.  I  was  sitting  near  both  tables.  It 
was  a  misunderstanding  —  or  rather  a  misapprehen 
sion" —  for  a  second  his  red-brown  eyes  gleamed 
coldly  at  the  furred  lady  —  "he  thought  the  lady  was 
being  insulted.  It  was,  I  may  say,  a  natural  misap 
prehension.  He  won't  give  you  any  more  trouble.  I 
can  answer  for  that." 


32 "Q" 

Q,  white  now  and  breathing  rather  fast,  looked  into 
the  man's  eyes.  They  smiled,  a  shy,  witty,  restless 
sort  of  smile,  which  the  lips  repeated,  bearing  out 
their  information.  The  rescuer,  it  would  be  imagined, 
was  clever,  nervous,  volcanic,  and  repressed.  He  had 
now  a  fine  color  in  a  somewhat  lined  face  which,  Q 
thought,  but  for  the  momentary  excitement  would 
have  been  pale.  The  long  fingers  he  had  laid  on  Q's 
arm,  still  gripped  by  a  panting  waiter,  were  sensitive, 
nervous,  skillful  fingers,  the  whole  body  was  finely  and 
tightly  strung  with  intermittent  limpnesses  as  though 
its  owner  relaxed  and  then  renewed  an  effort.  His 
thick  and  curly  crop  of  red  hair  burned  defiantly  like 
a  protest  of  boyishness  against  the  driven  and  con 
trolled  quality  of  the  man.  All  this  was  not  included 
in  Q's  comment,  which  might  briefly  have  been  ex 
pressed  in  one  exclamation,  "Here's  a  man!"  Sud 
denly  he  was  glad,  as  though  he  had  met  up  with 
Shorty  on  the  range. 

Having  smiled,  the  stranger  went  on  with  his  de 
fense.  "His  name  is  Cartwright,  friend  of  mine  from 
the  West.  Let  him  off,  won't  you,  Hartman?  It's  al 
ways  best  not  to  stir  up  anything.  Honestly,  he'll 
give  you  no  more  trouble.  He's  not  used  to  New 
York.  The  lady,  naturally,  does  n't  want  to  prose 
cute.  It  might  be  awkward  for  her,  when  you 
think"  — 

"Naturally,  she  won't  prosecute,"  her  husband  re 
sponded  gruffly,  for  her.  She  was  now  smiling,  her 
eyes  were  contemplating  Q  thoughtfully,  apprecia 
tive  of  his  good  looks. 


Chivalry  33 


Two  minutes  later,  Q  found  himself  out  of  range  of 
that  terrible  circle  of  unsympathetic  eyes,  out  on  the 
pavement  in  a  sunlight  that  seemed  to  have  more 
of  humanity,  more  of  sympathy.  He  straightened 
slowly  and  drew  in  a  profound  breath. 

"Here's  your  taxi,"  said  his  companion.  "Jump 
in,  Cartwright,  and"  —  here  he  lowered  his  voice  to 
a  violent  whisper  —  "go  to  wherever  you  belong  and, 
for  God's  sake,  don't  try  rescuing  ladies.  You're  a 
d — —  fool,  are  n't  you?" 

"I  sure  feel  like  one,"  admitted  Q  reluctantly. 

"Ladies  don't  need  rescue,  they  don't  want  it,  they 
don't  like  it.  If  they  let  themselves  be  manhandled  by 
tongue  or  fist,  you  can  jolly  well  believe  that  it 's  for 
some  good  purpose  of  their  own.  Have  you  got 
that?" 

Q  said,  "Yes,  sir,"  smiled,  and  fixed  his  amazing 
eyes  upon  his  admonisher.  He  was  conscious  of  a 
warm  desire  for  confidence.  The  man  was  certainly 
no  older  than  he,  but  there  was  a  fine  sharp  finish  to 
him  that  Q  recognized  as  the  work  of  a  far  more  chis 
eling  experience,  something  that  the  rough,  weather- 
furrowed  granite  of  his  own  personality  would  never 
acquire.  He  wanted,  with  a  certain  bitterness,  to 
justify  himself,  to  explain  something  of  his  dilemma. 
The  taxi  began  to  whir  away  the  minutes.  His  friend 
was  probably  impatient  to  return  to  an  interrupted 
meal. 

"There's  gels,"  said  Q  defensively,  "that  needs 
night-herdin'  till  they're  eighty.  Look  at  Grandma 
Sam  —  her  carryin's  on.  My  snakes!  Some  day  I'll 


34 "Q" 

hev  to  tell  you  about  that.  And  Ma  Shippen's  daugh 
ter,  kind  of  a  storm  center  she  was;  there's  a  biscuit- 
shooter  where  I  'm  stayin'  now  that  reminds  me  of  her 
—  Loretta  Shippen.  Had  n't  it  been  for  me  ropin'  her 
up  and  standin'  over  her  with  a  gun  until  her  ma  come 
back,  she  'd  have  went  off  with  Dismal  —  and  she  was 
a  good  gel  too !  Gels  is  desprit  kind  of  critters,  right 
along  until  they  die.  Likely,  that  lady  in  there,  if 
she'd  'a'  been  rescued,  soon  enough,  would  have 
gentled  real  nice.  I  reckon  it 's  come  too  late.  When 
they  once  get  to  be  strays  —  that 's  sure  the  truth  — 
you  can't  do  nothin'  with  them.  And  that 's  where  I 
made  my  mistake.  I  won't  keep  you,  stranger." 

It  was  not  until  the  taxi-cab  was  halfway  to  the 
station  that  Q  realized  miserably  that  he  had  never 
thanked  his  friend,  had  not  even  learned  his  name. 
He  had  said  —  with  reluctance,  glancing  back  at  a 
hovering  clerk,  "Good-bye,  Cartwright.  I'll  see  you 
later.  I  want  to  hear  about  Grandma  Sam."  And, 
waving  a  hand,  had  gone  back  smiling  into  the  res 
taurant,  his  fiery  head  extinguished  like  a  torch.  Q 
felt  diminished  and  abashed,  as  much  by  his  neglect 
of  a  golden  opportunity  as  by  his  misplaced  chivalry. 
He  had  failed  in  gratitude  and  he  had  failed  to  put  his 
brand  on  this  new  friend.  And,  he  admitted,  he  was 
very  homesick  for  Shorty  on  this  new  range. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  AN  EDUCATION 

To  Mary  Grinscoombe  that  prospect  of  a  pupil 
meant  so  desperately  much  that  all  day,  after  she  had 
received  Miss  Sherman's  note,  her  face  was  flushed 
and  her  heart  thumped  at  any  ringing  of  the  door 
bell.  After  three  days,  her  face  lost  its  flush  and  her 
pulses  went  back  into  their  patient  harness;  so  that 
when  she  answered  a  certain  ringing  on  a  certain 
Tuesday  afternoon,  it  was  with  perfect  nonchalance. 
She  looked  up  calmly  into  a  grave  brown  face,  and 
then,  under  the  brilliant  eyes  that  saw  through  her, 
she  did  regain  the  flush. 

"You  are  Mr.  Kinwydden?" 
"Yes,  ma'am.  Miss  Sherman  sent  me." 
The  tiny  narrow  hall  seemed  to  shrink  and  fade 
about  the  tall  bright-eyed  visitor.  He  followed  Mary 
into  the  sitting-room.  It  was  a  working-man's  little 
house  on  a  shabby  side  street  of  the  town,  and  it  was 
a  particularly  shabby  house.  It  needed  paint  and  it 
needed  repairs.  The  tiny  square  parlor,  however,  was 
not  the  parlor  of  a  working-man,  it  was  the  book- 
room  of  a  scholar.  Its  walls  were  lined  with  books  and 
its  big  central  table  was  loaded  with  them.  On  the 
narrow  mantel  over  a  shallow  fireplace  stood  two 
great  globes,  celestial  and  terrestrial,  and  between 
them  ticked  modestly  a  tiny  clock.  There  was  very 
little  else  in  the  room  except  the  chairs,  flowers,  and 
two  pairs  of  very  fresh  white  curtains. 


36 "Q" 

Mary  sat  down  near  one  of  the  windows  and  Kin- 
wydden  placed  himself  before  her. 

"I'd  have  come  before,"  he  said,  "but  I've  been  to 
New  York  to  buy  me  some  clothes."  His  tweed  suit 
was  perfection,  and  his  silk  shirt  and  his  tie.  His  hair 
cut  was  also  perfection.  The  immaculate  get-up  and 
the  natural  grace  of  his  manner  and  bearing  rather 
accentuated  the  imperfections  of  his  speech. 

"I  am  taking  after  an  edication,"  he  smiled,  "and 
they  tell  me  you  know  more  than  a  schoolmarm." 

She  laughed.  "I  have  n't  been  able  to  get  a  posi 
tion  as  schoolmarm,  though  I've  tried.  But  tell  me 
what  you  want  to  study,  Mr.  Kinwydden." 

Q  went  gravely  down  the  list,  his  unfaltering  eyes 
fixed  on  her. 

"Readin'  and  writin'  and  arithmetic.  Geography, 
History,  Poetry,  and  Literachoor.  Languages  alive 
and  dead."  And  this  time  he  added,  with  a  dazzling 
and  disarming  smile,  "And  I  don't  keer  if  you  throw 
in  the  py-anna." 

Mary  drew  in  her  breath  and  leaned  back.  "How 
much  do  you  know  now?"  she  asked. 

"Nothin'." 

"Nothing  at  all?" 

"No,  ma'am.  I'm  the  gol-derndest  ignorantest 
growed  man  in  the  U-nited  States." 

""But  you  can  read  and  write  —  a  little?  You've 
been  to  school?" 

"I've  never  seed  the  inside  of  a  school,  ma'am. 
I've  learned  myself  to  write  my  name  and  I've 
learned  myself  to  read  signs  and  such-like.  Oh,  I  can 


The  Beginning  of  an  Education  37 

make  out  to  gather  the  sense  of  a  letter.  And  I  can 
figger  a  bill  of  sale  and  weights  and  measures  — 
weighin'  cattle  and  such  —  " 

"You  are  a  cattle-man?" 

"I  was  raised  in  a  cow-camp,"  he  said,  "and  't  was 
in  a  cow-camp  I  got  my  edication." 

"And  your  parents  never  tried  to  send  you  to 
school?" 

"I  never  knowed  my  parents,  ma'am.  The  folks  I 
was  left  with  licked  me  so  I  run  away  when  I  was 
about  a  five-year-old.  And  I  turned  up  in  a  cow- 
camp  where  they  kep'  me  till  I  was  pretty  near 
growed.  I  worked  for  that  outfit.  I  have  n't  had  no 
time  to  get  round  to  learnin',  ma'am,  but  now  I  have 
the  time  and  some  money  and  I'm  plumb  set  on 
learnin'.  I'll  be  a  right  willin'  scholard,  ma'am,  if 
you  choose  to  take  me  on." 

"I'd  love  to,"  said  Mary. 

"Of  course,  I  had  ought  to  have  a  man.  Or  some 
big  fierce  woman  who  would  scare  me." 

"I  think  I '11  be  able  to  scare  you  enough,  perhaps," 
said  Mary. 

He  studied  her.  She  had  the  brightness  of  a  shaded 
light,  the  quickness  of  water  shadowed  by  an  old 
bridge.  There  were  ripples  that  had  never  been 
blown  upon  by  the  winds  of  happiness  and  freedom. 
In  a  small  dark  face,  her  mouth  was  as  sensitive  as  a 
brave  neglected  child's.  Her  eyes  were  Irish  eyes, 
waggish  and  wistful,  of  a  sweet  bluish  gray.  Her 
hair  was  dark  and  curly  with  threads  of  fire.  She  had 
the  Grinscoombe  chin  and  her  mother's  black 


38  "Q" 

straight  eyebrows  close  above  the  eyes.  When  she 
looked  up,  her  eyelashes  curled  almost  to  touch  these 
brows.  It  gave  her  an  arch  expression,  a  very  inno 
cent,  serious  sort  of  archness.  She  was  twenty-four 
years  old,  but  looked,  at  moments,  for  all  the  smoth 
ered  and  shadowed  quality,  younger.  Sometimes  she 
might  have  been  ten  years  older.  Kinwydden  decided 
that  she  was  twenty-eight  or  twenty-nine.  He  had 
conceived  at  once  a  huge  respect  for  her.  She  had  a 
great  deal  of  kindness,  and  of  dignity.  All  this  could 
be  read  in  her  eyes  and  lips  and  smile,  the  carriage 
of  her  small  slight  body  and  its  movements,  both  im 
pulsive  and  restrained. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  manage  me?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  so.  If  you  want  so  much  to  learn  —  that 's 
half  the  battle." 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "I  want  to."  He  sighed,  so  oppres 
sive  was  his  desire. 

"How  much  time  can  you  give?" 

"All  the  time  you  can  give  me." 

"Every  morning  —  all  morning  long?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"And  you  will  prepare  lessons  for  me?" 

"Whatever  you  say,  ma'am,  goes." 

"My  charge  —  "  Mary  began,  faltering. 

"You're  agoin'  to  work  hard,"  said  Kinwydden 
grimly.  "Make  it  a  sizable  figure." 

Driven  by  her  necessity  she  named  a  sum  that 
seemed  to  her  exorbitant. 

"Why,"  he  drawled,  "that  ain't  a  laborin'  man's 
pay.  You  leave  it  to  me,  lady.  I  know  better 'n  you 


The  Beginning  of  an  Education  39 

what  sort  of  trail  you're  hittin'.  Make  it  twict  that 
and  the  lessons '11  come  cheap." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "You  must  try  me  first. 
When  shall  we  begin?" 

Her  face  was  radiant,  though  she  tried  to  be  sober, 
and  her  voice  sang. 

"Right  now,  ma'am." 

It  made  her  feel  a  trifle  breathless,  but  she  got  him 
placed  with  the  table  between  herself  and  him  and 
she  cleared  a  space  and  got  out  pencils  and  paper. 

"To-day  we'll  find  out  just  how  much  you  do 
know,"  she  said.  "And  then  I'll  lay  out  a  course  for 
you.  First,  write  your  name  down  there  for  me, 
please." 

He  went  through  the  laborious  performance  and 
handed  her  the  result. 

"'Q.  T.  Kinwydden.'  What  does  the  'Q.  T.' 
stand  for?"  she  asked  with  all  her  kindness.  The 
scrawled  signature,  the  strong  brown  hand,  the  face, 
the  eyes,  spoke  aloud  to  her  heart  for  its  kindness. 

"Stand  for?"  he  repeated. 

"Yes.  The  <Q'  means  what?" 

"Why,  ma'am,  you 've  got  me  millin'  'round.  Q.  T. 
is  what  it  stands  fer." 

"Q.  T.?" 

"Q.  T.  KewTee." 

"Not  — Mr.  Kinwydden  —  not  'Cutie'?"  Her 
face  was  scarlet. 

"Yes,  ma'am."  He  smiled.  "It  does  sound  kind  of 
funny.  But  I 'm  broke  to  it.  That 's  what  they  called 
me  in  the  cow-camp  when  I  was  a  kid.  I  was  one  of 


40 "Q" 

these  big-boned  akkard  kids.  I  could  n't  rightly 
control  my  hands  and  feet.  I  was  always  fallin'  into 
things  and  over  things.  That's  why  they  named  me 
thataway.  'Say,  there  goes  Cutie  into  the  fryin'- 
pan, '  they'd  say.  Or,  'Look  at  Cutie,  puttin'  his  foot 
into  my  coffee-cup.'  Later,  they  got  to  callin'  me 
'Cute'  for  short,  and  because  I  was  cute  with  the 
bosses  —  kind  of  wise  with  broncs.  And  then  it  came 
to  be  'Quiet'  because  I 'd  a  way  of  savin'  that  word  to 
the  bosses  or  when  there  was  a  row  on  —  'Quiet! 
Quiet!'  —  thataway.  And  when  I  got  to  signin'  my 
name  and  drawin'  my  pay,  well,  ma'am,  I  did  n't 
know  no  other  name  but  '  Cutie, '  and  I  knowed  my 
letters  and  I  figured  out  that  was  the  way  to  spell  it. 
'Q.  TV  Ain't  it  right,  ma'am?  None  of  the  boys  ever 
said  nothin'  ag'in'  it." 

Mary  had  dropped  her  wistful  and  waggish  eyes. 
Her  sympathy  was  too  quick,  too  sensitive,  too  easily 
emotional.  She  knew  it. 

"That's  not  just  the  right  way  to  spell  'Cutie,' 
Mr.  Kinwydden,"  she  said.  "But  'Quiet'  begins 
with  a  'Q.'  I  think,"  she  told  him,  "you  deserve  a 
better  name." 

"They  call  me  Q  all  over  the  range  out  there,"  he 
said,  "and  I  ain't  got  no  call  to  change  it." 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  for  his  tone  was  proud. 
"And  the  Kinwydden  —  that  sounds  Welsh." 

"It  is.  It  was  a  Welshman  that  wished  it  on  me. 
He  left  it  to  me  when  he  died.  I  come  down  from  the 
hills  to  his  ranch  onct.  He  was  an  awful  free-hearted 
old  fellow.  And  I  was  took  awful  sick.  Some  kind  of 


The  Beginning  of  an  Education  41 

fever.  Had  n't  it  been  for  him,  I  'd  have  sure  died. 
But  he  nursed  me  well.  Every  year  I  'd  travel  down  to 
visit  him.  When  he  died  he  left  me  his  little  old  ranch 
and  he  asked  me  to  keep  his  name  for  him.  'Q'  he 
said  to  me,  *I  ain't  never  had  no  boy  nor  no  folks. 
And  you  ain't  never  had  no  father  nor  no  folks.  I 
want  you  to  kerry  my  name  for  me.  That  'd  make  me 
die  easy  in  my  mind. '  So  I  did."  He  was  silent.  She 
saw  the  feeling  hidden  by  his  mask.  Then  it  broke  be 
fore  his  smile.  "It's  sure  a  hard  name,  though,  ain't 
it,  ma'am?  Times  I 've  had  to  plump  spur  myself  into 
keepin'  it.  And  it  don't  go  right  with  Q,  does  it?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  think  I  rather  like  it.  Q.  T.  Kin- 
wydden  —  it's  not  a  bit  like  other  names." 

And  that  was  the  difficulty,  the  great  one,  in  the 
way  of  Q.  T.'s  education.  He,  as  well  as  his  name,  was 
too  unusual,  too  interesting:  to  Mary's  narrow  and 
smothered  experience,  altogether  too  thrilling.  It  was 
easier  to  talk  about  what  he  did  know  than  what  he 
did  n't.  Mary  had  a  feeling  that  he  knew  so  much. 

Toward  the  end  of  this  first  lesson  there  drifted  into 
the  room,  rather  as  if  a  draft  had  blown  him  there,  a 
little  oldish  gentleman  with  a  mass  of  books  under  his 
arm.  This  gentleman  was  introduced  by  Mary  as 
"  Papa."  Her  voice  was  tender,  just  touched  by  the 
softness  of  a  brogue,  on  the  "papa."  He  made  no 
difficulty  of  the  pupil's  name.  In  fact,  to  those  odd 
syllables  as  to  every  syllable  he  spoke,  he  gave  a 
jewel-like  cutting,  quite  beautifully  new  to  Western 
ears.  Q.  T.  found  himself  fascinated  by  Mary's 
father.  He  was  such  a  fine  little  gentleman,  greatly 


42 "Q" 

damaged  by  some  crumpling  and  discoloring  proc 
ess  of  one  of  life's  acid  solutions  in  which  he  had 
very  apparently  been  dipped.  He  had  a  sharp,  long, 
pointed  nose,  reddened  at  the  end;  he  had  lips  clever, 
sensitive,  hurt,  with  quiet  little  humor  pockets  at 
their  drooping  corners;  he  had  beautiful  visionary 
eyes  —  rimmed  with  red  and  continually  watering; 
his  white  thick  hair  sprang  back  like  a  crest  tri 
umphant  over  his  downfall.  It  was  by  way  of  being 
his  panache.  And  his  fine  little  old  body  was  shaken 
and  rickety  and  rackety,  but  wore  its  shabby  clothes 
quite  beautifully  —  with  an  air. 

"Say,"  Q.  T.  remarked  after  the  small  gentleman 
had  excused  himself,  tenderly  to  Mary,  whimsically 
to  Kinwydden,  and  had  left  the  room.  "Your  Pa  he 
sure  favors  that  curly  feller  at  Grinscoombe  Man 
ners"  —  it  was  a  long  time  before  Q.  T.  got  his  mind 
straight  on  the  matter  of  the  "  Grinscoombe  Man 
ners  "  —  "only  with  the  meanness  took  out  of  him." 

At  which  pronouncement,  Mary  laughed  quite  im 
moderately,  as  people  laugh  when  suppressed  bitter 
ness  is  suddenly  released  by  mirth. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  CROSSING  OF  SWORDS 

Miss  SELDA  GRINSCOOMBE,  the  Miss  Grinscoombe, 
lifted  the  lid  of  a  silver  kettle  and  looked  to  see  if  the 
water  were  about  to  boil.  It  was,  but  she  dropped  in 
a  square  of  sugar  to  hasten  the  process.  Then  she 
straightened  a  delicate  tea-cup,  and  turned  her  eyes 
toward  her  visitor.  To  all  these  trifling  actions  she 
gave  an  air  of  cold  importance.  She  was  sitting  op 
posite  Q.  T.  Kinwydden  on  the  glass-enclosed  ve 
randa  at  Grinscoombe  Manor.  Her  chair  had  a  very 
high  and  wide  back  of  wicker  —  a  chair  like  a  bird  of 
the  peacock  variety  that  had  turned  up  a  fan-shaped 
tail  behind  Miss  Grinscoombe's  head.  This  back 
ground  accentuated  the  stiffness  and  haughtiness  of 
her  carriage,  the  small  head,  its  gray -black  hair  care 
fully  arranged,  the  long  neck  banded  with  velvet  to 
hide  the  little  wrinkles  under  the  chin.  Her  beauty  of 
color  and  texture  had  gone,  but  it  had  left  a  hard 
handsomeness  of  bone.  The  disguises  of  youth  had 
gone  too.  It  was  impossible  longer  to  conceal  harsh 
ness  of  temper,  a  tyrannical  will,  and  a  passionate 
sort  of  selfishness.  Miss  Grinscoombe's  head  would 
have  been  especially  decorative  on  the  end  of  a  revo 
lutionary  pike.  It  looked  rather  as  if  it  belonged 
there.  But  in  all  the  hardness  and  harshness  of  its 
lines  and  its  expression,  there  was  a  curious  underly 
ing  weakness.  The  great,  almost  staring  gray  eyes 


44 "Q" 

had  a  guarded  look  that  seemed  to  brazen  out  a  little 
waver  of  timidity;  the  thin  lips,  fallen  in  a  trifle  be 
tween  chin  and  nose,  set  themselves,  it  might  be  im 
agined,  with  a  certain  concealing  effort;  the  hands 
moved  calmly  and  stiffly,  but  with  a  deliberate  stiff 
ness.  One  could  not  fancy  Miss  Selda  tremulous,  but 
one  could  fancy  that  she  had  a  secret  fear  of  tremu- 
lousness.  She  was  a  woman  of  sixty -five,  but  looked 
not  more  than  fifty.  It  was  as  though  at  a  certain  age 
she  had  dried  past  any  further  possibility  of  deteriora 
tion.  For  all  her  tasteful,  stylish,  and  becoming 
dress,  there  was  something  mummified  about  her. 

She  rested  her  long,  distinguished  hands  on  the 
arms  of  her  chair  and  her  stone-colored  eyes  in  the 
narrow,  stone-colored  face  made  no  secret  of  their 
contemptuous  liking.  For  she  liked  her  visitor,  liked 
him  the  better  because  in  his  case  there  was  no  possi 
ble  necessity  for  concealing  an  abnormal  sense  of  su 
periority  and  a  quite  abnormal  egotism.  He  was 
there  as  her  niece's  protege  entirely  on  her  sufferance 
and  she  desired  him  to  feel  this  with  completeness. 
The  only  drawback  to  the  situation  was  that  so  far  he 
did  not  seem  to  feel  it.  He  sat  there  and  sipped  his 
tea  and  murmured  his  polite  "Yes,  ma'am,"  and  "No, 
ma'am,"  and  his  eyes  rested  upon  her  with  a  brilliant 
sort  of  tranquillity.  The  perfection  of  his  clothes 
made  him  startling;  his  vivid  coloring,  the  straight 
"column  of  his  neck  hitherto  unbent  by  the  yoke  of 
civilized  collar  and  coat,  the  great  hard  strength  of 
his  body,  were  startling,  but,  above  all,  his  eyes. 
When  she  met  these  eyes,  Miss  Selda  had  a  sensation 
of  being  shocked. 


A  Crossing  of  Swords  45 

If  she  could  have  looked  into  the  brain  behind  the 
eyes,  she  would  have  been  even  profoundly  shocked, 
for  here  in  these  eyes  she  was  being  really  seen  for  the 
first  time.  When  her  world  looked  at  Miss  Selda,  it 
saw  the  Miss  Grinscoombe,  heiress  of  the  Grins- 
coombe  Mills  and  the  Grinscoombe  fortune.  The 
family  had  grown  to  its  pride  in  England  many  cen 
turies  before  Q's  birth,  and,  transplanted  to  a  new 
soil,  it  had  struck  deep  root  and  had  exceedingly 
flourished.  In  Old  New  York  not  yet  entirely  sub 
merged  and,  of  course,  greatly  more  so  in  Sluy pen- 
kill,  which  had  grown  up  in  the  shadow  of  Grins 
coombe  Manor,  Miss  Grinscoombe  stood  for  an  idea 
so  deeply  rooted  and  many -branched  that  it  caused  a 
powerful  obscuration  on  the  mind  of  the  observer. 
There  is  this  advantage  in  having  known  a  few  men 
and  women  in  a  very  raw  intimacy,  one  knows  the 
bones  of  all  men  and  women.  Prejudice  sits  like  a 
distorting  lens  across  the  nose  of  Mr.  Worldly  Wise 
man.  He  sees  this  button  and  that  stripe,  this  arrange 
ment  of  feature  and  that  decoration,  but  the  bones  of 
humanity  are  for  the  most  part  non-existent  for  him. 
Q.  T.  sat  and  sipped  his  tea  and  his  eyes  contemplated 
as  through  serene  miles  of  clarity  Miss  Selda  Grins- 
coombe's  bones.  And  they  were  the  first  eyes  to  take 
cognizance  of  that  secret  waver  that  was  hers. 

Besides  the  sensation  of  shock,  Miss  Selda  had  a 
further  sensation  of  release.  She  found  herself  rather 
more  loquacious  than  was  her  habit.  She  was  free  to 
indulge  without  caution,  as  she  frequently  rather  care 
fully  indulged,  a  delicate  impulse  to  cruelty.  This 


46 "Q" 

young  man  who  did  not  belong  to  her  world,  who  could 
never  belong  to  it,  and  yet  for  whom  with  a  very  de 
finite  purpose  she  had  negligently  let  down  the  bars 
that  kept  such  young  men  in  their  Heaven-ordained 
place,  was  fair  game  for  her  experiments.  Slaves  that 
buried  treasure  and  were  effectually  silenced  by  death 
must  have  been  as  welcome  an  audience  to  the  un 
bending  humors  of  their  tyrant.  Q  was  to  be  allowed 
acquaintance  with  the  treasure  of  Grinscoombe  and 
the  end  of  his  experience  was  to  be  the  death  of  his 
hope  and  his  ambition  —  this  Miss  Selda  knew.  She 
considered  it  a  wholesome  lesson  for  the  man.  She 
found  him,  in  the  meantime,  therefore,  amusing  and 
likable  company.  She  hoped  to  see  a  great  deal  of 
him.  She  told  him  so. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "we  shall  enjoy  our  conversa 
tions,  Mr.  Kinwydden."  She  spoke  delicately  and 
carefully  as  though  she  were  picking  her  way  along  a 
dirty  path  —  on  stones  of  impeccable  purity.  "And 
I  think  you  will  enjoy  meeting  my  niece's  friends. 
You  did  enjoy  them,  this  afternoon  —  ?" 

When  Q  had  arrived,  there  had  been  half  a  dozen  of 
Lelo's  friends  and  he  had  met  them  and  listened  to 
them  and  watched  them,  he  had  answered  patiently 
their  questions  and  had  been  somewhat  startled  by 
their  intense  amusement  over  his  own  rare  comments. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said,  and  added  with  a  queer 
ironic  flash,  "not  one  half  so  much  as  they're  agoin* 
to  enjoy  me." 

"Really?"  Miss  Selda  indulged  herself  in  the  smile 
of  Sir  Sydney  Grinscoombe. 


A  Crossing  of  Swords  47 

"Yes,  ma'am.  I'm  sure  agoin*  to  get  paid  for  all 
the  times  I  Ve  laughed  to  myself  over  the  plumb  fool 
ish  ways  of  Eastern  folks  with  hosses  and  in  camp 
and  on  the  trail,  got  behind  sagebrush  and  willow 
clumps  and  laughed  myself  loco.  Now  it's  their 
turn." 

"And  you  '11  find,  my  poor  boy,  that  they  won't  get 
behind  anything  to  do  their  laughing.  This  genera 
tion  is  not  sensitive  for  itself  or  for  its  victims." 

When  she  called  him  a  "poor  boy,"  Q  blinked  and 
inwardly  he  was  seized  by  an  intense  desire  to  laugh. 
This  old  lady  was  pitying  him!  Pitying  him  —  Q! 
Aloud  he  said  inexpressively,  "Ain't  that  the  truth 
now!"  and  his  face  was  a  gentle  mask. 

"The  average  New  York  debutante,"  pursued  in 
flexibly  the  "old  lady"  who  had  been  unwise  enough 
to  pity  Q,  "is  a  little  vulgarian.  Lelo  is  not.  That  is 
the  difference,  which  you,  no  doubt,  are  experienced 
enough  to  observe.  I  have  given  her  a  cosmopolitan 
education.  She  has  been  presented  in  more  than  one 
European  court"  (through  the  mind  of  the  listener 
flashed  a  picture  of  some  unimaginably  stately  cere 
mony  not  unlike  a  heathen  sacrifice).  "She  is  fitted 
to  be  the  companion  of  statesmen,  men  of  the  great 
world.  She  has  tasted  such  companionship.  I  am  so 
glad"  —  here  Miss  Selda  extended  her  palm,  her  ges 
ture  of  friendliness,  in  a  light  upward  movement  — 
"I  am  so  glad,  my  dear  Mr.  Q"  —  her  eyes  gleamed 
at  the  queerness  of  her  name  for  him  —  "that  you 
have  arrived  at  just  this  juncture.  Lelo  is  bored. 
And  when  one  of  us  is  bored  —  ! "  She  lifted  eyes  and 


48 "Q" 

hands  to  let  them  fall.  "The  variety  of  mischief  and 
danger  the  Grinscoombe  impatience  of  boredom  can 
drive  them  to!" 

"She  ain't  afraid  of  any  danger  there  might  be 
in  her  lookin'  in  my  direction,"  was  the  cowboy's 
shrewd  inner  comment;  aloud  he  said,  "Is  that  so?" 
in  a  tone  of  profound  commiseration  for  the  Grins 
coombe  fashion  of  escaping  boredom. 

Miss  Selda  looked  at  him,  suddenly  aware  that  she 
had  been  vastly  more  communicative  than  her  visitor. 

"What  do  you  and  Lelo  find  to  talk  about?"  she 
said. 

Q  set  down  his  empty  cup  and  rose.  He  was  aware 
of  a  great  weariness,  a  great  desire  for  solitude.  "I 
reckon  you  'd  say  we  talk  about  one  of  the  best  ways 
of  not  gettin'  bored,  ma'am,"  he  said;  and  added, 
meeting  her  gray  stare  with  a  steely  intentness,  "I'll 
be  goin'  now  and  thank  you  kindly." 

Their  eyes  remained  for  an  instant  fixed  —  it  was 
like  the  crossing  of  blades  —  and  just  for  that  instant 
there  was  a  curious  resemblance  between  Miss  Grins 
coombe  and  her  guest. 

The  interview  left  Q  smarting,  restless,  and  excited. 
That  night  he  could  not  sleep.  He  sat  at  his  window, 
listening  to  the  grinding  intermittent  passage  of  the 
trolley  cars,  the  occasional  hum  of  a  motor,  the 
laughter  of  town  lovers  and  the  clapping  of  feet.  The 
coarse  lace  curtain  sucked  in  and  out  behind  his  head. 
Hour  by  hour  he  sat  there,  immobile  as  a  savage,  ex 
cept,  at  almost  rhythmic  intervals,  for  the  rolling  and 
lighting  of  a  cigarette.  In  the  corner  saloon  a  Victor 


A  Crossing  of  Swords  49 

sang  and  laughed  and  screamed  dance  music  like  a 
lunatic  until,  soon  after  midnight,  a  hand  was  clapped 
across  its  mouth.  Gradually  the  town  yielded  its 
hoarse  small  clamors  to  the  silence  of  night.  There 
were  some  roistering  farewells  in  front  of  the  saloon, 
unsteady  footsteps.  Q  thought  that  under  his  win 
dow  a  girl's  voice  spoke  with  surprising  gentleness, 
just  one  word  softly.  A  little  tender  touch  of  brogue 
reminded  him  of  his  small  schoolmarm.  He  had  a 
strong  impulse  of  gratitude  toward  Mary  Grins- 
coombe  —  who,  of  the  three  Grinscoombes  he  had 
met,  had  been  the  only  one  to  look  at  him,  woman  to 
man  —  an  impulse  that  turned  into  a  longing  for  her 
help.  It  was  almost  the  first  time  in  his  hard  and 
lonely  life  that  such  an  impulse  had  been  born  in  him. 
Miss  Selda's  face  had  become  a  Sphinx  in  his  path. 
What  was  there  in  her  mind  against  him?  "She  likes 
me,"  he  thought,  "but  she  chooses  to  make  me 
winch''  "She  likes  me,  but  she  means  me  to  savvy 
somethin'  —  somethin'  that  '11  leave  me  with  a  scar. 
God!  I'll  hev  to  fight  her."  His  fist  on  the  window- 
sill  tightened  until  his  arm  was  iron  to  the  shoulder. 
"Fight  her  and  fight  the  notion  that's  in  her  mind 
and  that's  in  her  gel's  mind  too.  I  wisht  I  savvied 
what  it  was  — 

He  tortured  his  brains  for  a  name,  for  a  vision  of 
that  mysterious  inimical  idea.  The  unaccustomed  ef 
fort  of  such  thought  brought  sweat  to  his  forehead. 
He  had  the  feeling  of  exhaustion  that  the  hunter  ex 
periences  when,  at  the  top  of  a  desperate  slope,  he 
stands  gasping  and  drained  of  life  to  see  the  game 


50 "Q" . 

dropping  beyond  sight  and  range  over  the  next  high- 
headed  hill.  Q  stood  up  from  the  tense  position  he 
had  held.  He  felt  cramped  and  stifled,  bitterly  home 
sick  for  the  night  wind  of  the  range  upon  his  face.  He 
was  urgent  for  air  and  space  and  stars.  He  found  his 
way  down  through  the  sleeping  hotel  past  the  nod 
ding  night  clerk  at  the  desk  and  out  into  the  silent 
street.  A  thunder-cloud  pulsing  with  faint  lightning 
was  swallowing  dim  star  by  star  above  the  silent 
town.  Q  strode  out  in  the  direction  farthest  from 
Grinscoombe  Manor.  He  walked  with  a  tireless  pan 
ther  step  until  the  houses  were  far  behind  him  and  the 
scent  of  lawless  spring  rose  up  from  the  docile  walled- 
in  fields.  Thunder  growled  like  a  dog  at  his  heels. 
There  lay  a  mist  of  cherry  blossoms  across  the  lane. 
It  was  getting  densely  dark.  Down  below  in  an 
abrupt  gully,  there  flashed  up  at  him  the  lights  of  a 
tiny  hamlet  beside  a  rattling  creek.  He  chose  a  steep 
and  sudden  path,  white  as  paint  to  his  forest  eyes,  but 
before  he  reached  the  bottom  of  the  gully  the  storm 
struck  him,  a  May  storm  as  mad  as  a  Bacchante.  It 
lashed  and  beat  him.  He  found  shelter  beneath  some 
groaning  firs  by  a  gate,  which  shrilled  to  and  fro  on  a 
damaged  hinge.  A  few  paces  inside  it  a  ramshackle 
house  danced  in  and  out  under  the  lightning,  clinging 
crazily  to  the  steep  side  of  the  hill.  A  light  burned 
in  one  weeping  and  unshuttered  window.  As  he 
watched  this  blurred  light,  wondering  if  it  might  not 
be  more  sensible  to  ask  for  shelter,  the  door  opened 
from  inside,  was  shut  with  difficulty,  and  some  small, 
fluttering  object  scuttered  down  the  path  and,  before 


A  Crossing  of  Swords  51 

he  could  distinguish  what  it  was,  blundered  against 
his  legs.  It  gave  forth  a  shrill,  frightened  cry,  and  Q 
exclaimed,  "Great  snakes!  A  kid!  What  are  you 
doin'  out  in  this  storm  this  time  of  night?" 

The  little  girl's  pale,  pointed  face  glistened  up  at 
him.  Her  little  hand  was  at  her  throat.  "Oh,  mister, 
how  you  scared  me!"  she  wailed. 

"What  did  they  send  you  out  for?" 

The  child's  urgency  overcame  her  fluttered  nerves. 
She  panted,  "I  gotta  get  over  to  Sampson's  house  on 
the  hill  to  telephone  for  doctor.  Kin  you  hold  the 
gate  for  me,  please?" 

"What  doc?  Who's  sick?" 

"My  ma's  took  awful  bad  with  her  heart."  The 
little  creature  sobbed  uncontrollably.  "I  think  she's 
agoin'  to  die  this  time.  And  Pa,  he 's  away  on  a  drunk 
and  I  gotta  send  for  Dr.  Sales." 

"Sales,  is  it?  Whereat?" 

"Up  to  Sluypenkill." 

"Your  ma's  name?  Stringer?  You  cut  back  into 
the  house,  gel.  I'll  get  the  doc.  You  say  the  tele 
phone's  at  Sampson's  up  the  hill  —  a  white  house  — 
white  gateposts?" 

"Yes,  mister." 

"Get  back.  You're  wet  through  already." 

She  seemed  to  be  blown  back  into  the  house,  and 
Q  bent  his  supple  strength  against  the  storm  and 
fought  through  the  streaming  darkness,  finding  the 
entrance  presently,  flanked  by  stiff  pale  ghosts.  He 
thundered  presently  at  the  door  of  the  frame  house. 
It  seemed  a  long  time  before  his  thunder  brought  an 


52 "Q" 

opener.  Bolts  were  deliberately  withdrawn,  a  tall, 
scrawny,  bearded  figure  in  a  flannel  nightshirt,  show 
ing  flat  feet  and  hairy  legs,  held  up  a  kerosene  lamp 
and  peered  at  Q. 

"You  Sampson?" 

The  man  reluctantly  admitted  it  and  clawed  at  his 
red  beard  with  the  fingers  of  suspicion.  Q  patiently 
explained  himself.  Never  before  had  he  encountered 
so  unwilling  an  intelligence.  It  was  a  matter  for  im 
mense  consideration  to  Mr.  Sampson  whether  or  no 
his  telephone  could  be  endangered  by  so  informal  and 
unexpected  a  service.  At  last  Q  found  himself  ad 
mitted. 

"Will  you  look  up  Sales's  number  for  me?"  he 
asked,  flushing,  "  while  I  get  the  rain  out  of  my  eyes." 

Sampson's  suspicions  returned  in  force,  but,  one 
red-fringed  eye  on  Q,  he  sought  the  number,  found  it, 
and  pronounced  it,  nasally.  After  interminable  repe 
titions  of  "Hullo,"  a  voice  other  than  Central's  re 
plied.  It  was  a  soft  and  heavy  voice;  it  had  evidently 
been  summoned  from  a  soft  and  slumbrous  body.  It 
was  irritable. 

"Hullo!  Hullo!  Yes,  this  is  Dr.  Sales.  Who  is  it? 
What  do  you  want?" 

"Say,  doc,  there's  a  woman  named  Stringer  that's 
took  bad  with  her  heart.  I  want  you  to  come  quick." 

"Who  is  this,  please?" 

"  It  would  n't  do  you  no  good  to  know,  doc.  I  'm  a 
stranger  in  these  parts.  But  the  woman  is  sure  awful 
sick." 

"Mrs.  Stringer,  you  say?  At  the  Gully?  You'd  get 


A  Crossing  of  Swords  53 

me  out  of  my  bed  at  this  hour  on  a  night  like  this  for  a 
Gully  case?" 

"  Say,  doc,  you  better  come."  Q's  voice  had  a  stern 
sort  of  incredulity.  "I  guess  you  didn't  hear  me 
right.  She's  likely  to  die." 

"The  quicker  that  rabbit-warren  gets  thinned  out, 
the  better,"  said  the  heavy  voice;  "it's  a  regular 
breeding-place  for  disease."  And  the  receiver  clicked. 

Q  turned  a  white,  bewildered  face  to  Sampson. 

"He's  not  agoin'  to  come." 

Sampson  made  a  wry  grimace.  "Dr.  Sales  don't 
trouble  himself  much  over  the  Gully  cases.  No  profit, 
lots  of  work,  and  he  hates  work." 

"Have  you  any  woman  that'll  come  back  with  me 
to  Mrs.  Stringer  and  help?" 

"Nope."  The  fingers  were  scratching  again  at  the 
beard.  "I'm  alone  to-night." 

"Then  coine  yourself.   We've  got  to  do  what  we 


can." 


"I've  got  the  rheumatiz  and  it's  raining  pitch 
forks.  I'll  try  to  get  down  later." 

Q  turned  and  flung  himself  out  of  the  house.  He 
had  the  gift  of  prompt  and  instinctive  hatred,  a  gift 
of  which  civilization  has  robbed  the  bewildered  and 
defrauded  mind  of  humanity.  His  hatred  for  Dr. 
Sales  had  the  relentless  patience  of  a  loping  wolf. 

He  found  at  Mrs.  Stringer's  the  interior  he  had  ex 
pected.  The  smell  of  poverty,  the  same  the  world 
over,  familiarly  assailed  his  nostrils.  There  was  a 
bare,  chilly  room,  lighted  by  a  single  lamp.  A  little, 
half-dressed  boy  sat  up  among  dingy  blankets  on 


54 "Q" 

the  floor  and  cried  dismally,  the  older  child,  who  had 
run  against  him,  stood  pinched  with  fear  by  the 
side  of  the  bed,  where  a  dark-haired  young  woman 
lay  and  looked  up  at  him  with  pain-shadowed  eyes 
and  blue,  convulsed  lips. 

"  Would  n't  he  come? "  she  whispered,  and,  as  he 
shook  his  head,  she  nearly  smiled.  "I  thought  not! 
O  my  God  —  this  pain!" 

"Ain't  there  no  other  doc?  Is  there  a  drug-store 
handy?" 

"There  ain't  nothin'  at  the  Gully.  If  I  don't  git 
help  quick,  it'll  be  no  good." 

Q  peeled  off  his  coat.  "Well,  ma'am,"  he  said, 
"I've  lived  in  places  where  docs  and  drugs  was 
scarcer  than  they  are  here  and  where  every  man 's  got 
to  be  a  sort  of  doc,  himself.  I've  got  some  whiskey 
with  me;  we  kin  light  a  fire.  Say,  we're  agoin'  to  pull 
you  through." 

He  brought  into  the  room  courage  and  hope  —  and 
courage  and  hope  carried  them  all  through  the  night 
and  up  to  the  gates  of  death,  and  triumphantly 
through  them,  for  at  dawn  the  woman  died,  silently, 
patiently,  hopefully,  her  pathetic  head  dropping  back 
against  his  shoulder.  Q  laid  her  down  and  smoothed 
her  covers.  He  stood  looking  at  her  face,  already 
rested  from  life.  He  was  not  unfamiliar  with  such 
spectacles.  The  children  were  asleep,  curled  up  like 
two  thin  little  kittens  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  He  sat 
down  to  wait  for  the  return  of  that  "Pa"  who  had 
"gone  off  on  a  drunk."  A  desolate  home-coming  it 
would  be  in  the  still,  rain-washed  dawn. 


A  Crossing  of  Swords  55 

When  the  gate  clicked,  Q  rose  and  let  himself 
quietly  out  on  the  small  porch.  A  young,  stoop- 
shouldered,  unshaven  working-man  with  a  dull  and 
beaten  look,  came  slowly  toward  him,  wavered  to  a 
stop  and  looked  up  with  already  stricken  eyes  into 
his  face. 

"Your  wife  was  took  very  ill  during  the  night," 
said  Q  gently.  The  man  was  sober  enough,  though  he 
had  been  drinking;  fumes  of  bad  whiskey  rose  from 
him  through  parted,  working  lips.  "I  happened  to 
come  into  your  place  during  the  storm  and  your  little 
gel  come  runnin'  out  for  the  doctor.  Doc  would  n't 
come  —  the  storm  was  too  bad  —  so  I  done  what  I 
could."  He  stepped  down  and  put  his  arm  heavily 
across  Stringer's  shoulders.  "It  was  n't  no  use,  man. 
She's  dead." 

At  the  sight  of  her,  the  widower,  until  then  quite 
still  and  dull,  broke  out  into  sobbing  curses. 

"He's  a  murderer,  that  Sales,  and  I'll  get  him,  be 
fore  God  I  will  —  him  and  his  damned  horspital  where 
they  let  a  man  die  of  blood-poisoning!  —  Too  bad  a 
storm!  — Wait  till  I  get  back  to  the  Mills!  — Oh, 
Hallie  girl,  I'll  pay  him  out  for  this!" 

Q  laid  his  hand  a  minute  on  the  man  and  looked 
into  his  eyes,  his  own  gathering  gray  light. 

"Leave  him  to  me,  stranger,"  he  said  softly  and 
grimly.  "You  leave  him  to  me.  He's  mine." 


CHAPTER  VI 

CONCERNING  LOVES  AND  HATREDS 

THE  morning  after  the  storm,  Mary's  pupil  was  late 
for  the  first  time.  It  was  half -past  eleven  before  she 
opened  the  door  in  reply  to  the  shattering  peal  that 
was  his  usual  announcement. 

"Now  I  am  going  to  scold  you!"  she  said,  and 
there  was  really  a  fine  crease  of  annoyance  between 
her  brows.  She  was  completely  absorbed  in  the  edu 
cation  of  the  "gol-derndest  ignorantest  growed  white 
man  in  the  U-nited  States,"  and  she  begrudged  those 
wasted  ninety  minutes. 

"I'm  plumb  ashamed  of  myself,"  said  Q,  and  it  was 
the  only  excuse  he  gave. 

"You  have  so  very  much  to  learn,"  sighed  Mary 
as  they  took  their  places  on  either  side  of  the  table, 
"and  so  short  a  time  to  learn  it  in.  You  need  every 
second  you  can  give  to  study.  Now  you  have  lost 
nearly  two  hours!" 

"You  had  ought  to  lick  me,  lady." 

For  the  first  time  his  schoolmarm  failed  to  return 
Q's  smile,  and  this  alarmed  and  distressed  the  West 
erner  more  than  anything  she  could  have  said.  He 
gave  her  a  quick,  scared  look  and  fell  to  work  with 
overpowering  seriousness. 

In  the  middle  of  his  reading-lesson,  however  (he 
was  engaged  on  page  18  of  a  primer  and  was  spelling 
out 


Concerning  Loves  and  Hatreds  57 

"Run,  girls  and  boys. 
Jump,  boys  and  girls. 
Run  to  the  tree,  boys. 
Run  to  me,  girls"  — 

quite  as  if  he  meant  every  word  of  it,  especially  the 
last  sentence,  which  he  delivered  with  an  indescrib 
ably  laughable  drawl),  he  interrupted  himself  to  say, 

"After  I  run  away  from  the  folks  that  treated  me 
so  bad,  I  was  n't  never  licked  but  once." 

Mary,  minded  to  reprove  him,  looked  up  to  see  a 
white  face  and  eyes  that  blazed  quite  through  her. 

Instantly  she  forgot  everything  except  the  spec 
tacle.  "When  was  that?"  she  asked  in  a  very  low 
voice,  holding  herself  as  still  as  though  she  were  afraid 
of  him. 

"I  was  a  boy  of  twelve  or  thereabouts.  A  big  rich 
feller  come  to  the  cow-camp.  He  was  half  boss  of  the 
hull  outfit.  We  boys  was  ridin'  the  range  on  his  pay, 
but  he  did  n't  often  come  nigh  the  camps.  This  time 
he  happened  in  on  his  way  to  one  of  the  main  ranches 
and  he  brung  his  boy.  He  was  an  awful  plump  kid, 
dressed  up  stylish  in  store  clothes.  Well,  sir,  he  wore 
a  kind  of  a  strip-ed  shirt  with  a  stiff  collar  and  he  had 
on  a  straw  hat.  A  straw  hat  with  a  blue-and-white 
strip-ed  ribbon  all  about  it.  Yes,  ma'am,  it  sure  had 
that  kind  of  ribbon.  Fer-di-nand  was  his  name.  It 
was  my  job  to  entertain  him.  I  was  real  po-lite  to 
him,  ma'am.  I  sure  was,  till  he  called  me  a  name.  It 
was  a  right  nasty  name,  and  I  lighted  into  him.  He 
was  bigger  'n  me  and  not  so  soft  as  you  'd  think  to 
look  at  him.  He  was  about  two  years  older.  But  I  was 


58 "Q" 

lickin'  him  all  right  when  he  begun  to  holler,  'Popper! 
Popper!'  like  as  if  I'd  b'en  wattlin'  him.  Well,  sir, 
Popper  he  came  through  the  willows  like  a  cow  moose, 
and  he  tuk  me  by  what  I  called  my  collar  and  havin' 
his  ridin'-switch  handy,  he  gave  me  the  gol-derndest 
lickin'  you  ever  need  to  think  about.  There  were  n't 
any  Popper  'round  fer  me  to  holler  to,  so  I  held  my 
tongue.  All  the  while  the  Fer-di-nand  kid  stood  by 
kind  of  pipin',  'That's  right,  Popper,  you  better  give 
it  to  him.  You  teach  him  not  to  be  so  free  with  his 
fists.'" 

Q's  eyes  came  slowly  back  to  the  vision  of  Mary's 
face.  "Some  day,"  he  said,  "I'm  agoin'  to  find  that 
young  feller  and  pay  him  back  on  that  lickin'  and 
some  to  spare." 

There  was  a  hard  brown  fist  lying  on  the  primer 
and  Mary  impulsively  put  her  hand  over  it. 

"Don't  be  revengeful,  Mr.  Q,"  she  said  softly; 
"you're  too  big  a  man  to  remember  a  thing  like 
that." 

He  started  under  her  touch,  looked  down  at  the 
hand  and  then  at  her  again.  Mary  took  the  hand 
away. 

"I  pay  off  what's  owed,"  said  Q  grimly,  "if  that's 
bein'  revengeful.  I  never  have  spoken  about  that 
lickin'  before  to  any  one.  But  I  ain't  never  forgot  it. 
It  kept  me  layin'  awake  all  that  night.  I  don't  hate 
many  folks.  But  I  sure  hate  that  Fer-di-nand  kid. 
And  I'm  sure  goin'  to  pass  on  that  lickin'." 

"But  —  you  would  n't  know  him  if  you  saw  him. 
You  were  boys.  Do  you  know  his  last  name?" 


Concerning  Loves  and  Hatreds  59 

"  Fadden,"  said  Q.  "He  was  brung  up  in  the  East 
and  he  lives  hereabouts.  Fer-di-nand  Fadden." 

And,  for  an  instant,  Mary  opened  her  blue-gray 
eyes  to  a  large  and  startled  width. 

"Hatin'  is  queer/'  Q  went  on  slowly;  and  added 
with  apparent  irrelevance,  "I've  knowed  some  al 
mighty  fine  docs,  though." 

Mary  stared,  then  remembered  abruptly  that  she 
was  a  schoolmarm. 

"I  shall  have  to  invent  some  sort  of  punishment 
for  you,"  she  said.  "You've  been  talking  for  ten 
minutes." 

"You  had  n't  ought  to  listen  to  me,  ma'am." 

She  colored  at  his  tone.  "After  this,  I  won't.  And 
I  Ve  thought  of  a  punishment.  You  must  tell  me  all 
over  again  what  you've  just  told  me  and  you  must 
put  it  into  perfect  English." 

"O,  Gawd  Almighty!"  ejaculated  Q,  and  spent  an 
other  five  minutes  in  abject  apology  for  his  oath.  But 
he  had  to  tell  his  story  again,  painfully  and  perfectly. 
And  even  the  last  sentence  was  remembered  and 
"served  up  cold,"  as  Q  expressed  it. 

"I  have  known,"  he  had  to  say,  "some  very  fine 
doctors,"  and  burst  out  laughing  for  the  first  time  in 
Mary's  experience  of  him. 

He  left  her,  as  usual,  flushed  and  pleasantly  ex 
cited,  feeling  that  the  shadow  had  been  lifted  from 
her  day.  She  hung  for  a  long  time  over  the  page  of 
his  writing-lesson,  a  proverb,  written  down  neatly  in 
her  own  straight  letters  at  the  top  of  the  page  and 
painfully  repeated  in  his  big  hand.  Her  face  as  it  read 


60 "Q" 

down  the  lines  was  more  like  the  face  of  a  youthful 
mother  than  that  of  a  schoolmarm.  When  she  looked 
up  at  the  sound  of  the  tiny  clock  striking  modestly 
between  the  globes,  the  shadow  fell  again. 

And  yet,  those  days  of  Mary's  over  which  the 
shadow  lay  were  tranquil  and  serene  enough.  In  the 
morning  she  would  prepare  the  breakfast,  a  coffee- 
toast-and-marmalade  meal,  and  then  she  would  go 
over  the  tiny  house  and  make  it  shine  —  this  before 
the  appearance  of  her  pupil.  After  lessons,  there  was 
lunch  to  be  cooked,  which  she  brought  on  a  tray  to 
her  father's  elbow,  where  he  wrote  at  a  desk  in  a  dim 
corner  of  the  Grinscoombe  Free  Library  half  a  block 
away.  In  the  afternoon,  he  came  home  and  slept  very 
quietly  and  neatly  in  a  chair.  He  worked  a  very  little 
with  a  gentle  air  of  detachment  in  the  vegetable  gar 
den.  The  working-man's  house  had  a  working-man's 
back  yard.  And  then,  Mary  would  call  him  in  to  sup 
per  with  that  tender  and  anxious  softening  of  her 
voice  which  amounted  almost  to  a  brogue.  So  far, 
certainly,  the  day  would  have  been  serene;  Mary 
would  have  mended  and  read  and  walked  and  pre 
pared  Q's  lesson  for  to-morrow.  At  supper  the  little 
father  would  be  quietly  gay  and  Mary  almost  fever 
ishly  so.  She  would  entertain  her  father,  her  father 
would  entertain  her;  it  was  a  dialogue  well  worth  the 
listening  to,  and  not  in  the  least  like  the  usual  family 
mumble  or  clatter,  rather  pathetically  unlike  it. 
Even  after  the  meal,  while  she  was  washing  up  the 
dishes,  Mary  would  keep  up  her  talk  —  until  it 
would  suddenly  falter  into  silence.  In  the  midst  of 


Concerning  Loves  and  Hatreds  61 

her  story  or  his  sophism,  the  little  father  would  have 
tiptoed  away,  slunk  out  of  his  house,  and  down  the 
street  like  a  quivering  piece  of  twilight. 

Then  Mary,  looking  thirty  years  instead  of  twenty- 
four,  would  move  about  the  little  lonely  house,  or  try 
to  read  or  sit  with  her  head  in  her  hands  until  a  late, 
late  hour,  when  she  would  stand  up  and,  holding  her 
head  high,  would  walk  quickly  down  the  side  street 
and  along  the  main  one.  Her  fingers  would  be  cold 
and  her  throat  tight,  but  if,  by  an  unlucky  chance, 
there  were  an  acquaintance  to  be  met,  Mary  would 
smile  and  wave  her  hand  pleasantly  as  though  she 
were  going  for  a  stroll.  So  —  to  a  certain  brightly 
lighted  corner  where  from  a  swinging  door  stumbled 
and  wavered  a  helpless  little  figure,  to  whom  Mary 
went  straight  and  took  its  arm  and  guided  its  zigzag 
course  toward  home.  Her  cheeks  burned  and  her 
eyes  smarted,  but  she  had  still  the  air  of  taking  a 
pleasant  stroll  with  her  "Papa"  —  this  for  the  ben 
efit  of  that  possible  belated  acquaintance  who,  if  met 
with,  greeted  Mary  with  lowered  eyes  and  passed  her 
quickly  by.  The  pity  of  the  averted  looks  smote  her 
pride  like  a  blow. 

It  was  one  night,  not  very  long  after  that  lesson  in 
which  Mary  had  inflicted  punishment,  when  Q.  T. 
Kinwydden,  swinging  with  his  lithe-hipped  stride 
along  Main  Street,  bore  down  upon  the  pair.  His 
eyes,  trained  to  observation  and  wise  in  such  human 
ities,  read  the  tragedy  and  its  heroism  at  a  glance  and 
he  too  smiled  and  passed  by.  But  in  an  instant  he  was 
back  again.  He  lifted  his  hat  and  took  Mr.  Grins- 
coombe's  arm. 


62 "Q" 

"No  use  you  lookin'  at  me,  ma'am,"  he  said,  very 
low,  very  grim,  very  gentle,  "I'm  agoin'  to  see  you 
through  this." 

He  saw  them  to  the  porch  of  the  little  house  and 
up  the  steps  and,  because  Mary  here  bade  him  a  trem 
ulous  good-night,  he  did  not  see  them  any  farther. 
But  he  sat  on  the  top  step  of  the  porch  that  needed 
painting  so  badly  and,  with  the  ears  of  a  forest  beast, 
he  heard  the  dreadful  stumbling  up  the  stairs  and 
Mary's  coaxing  voice  as  she  got  her  charge  into  bed 
and,  afterwards,  her  lagging  step  down  the  stairs.  At 
the  foot  she  seemed  to  pause  and  soon  there  came  the 
pitiful  low  sound  of  her  sobbing. 

For  five  minutes  Q  sat  and  swore  to  himself  with 
eloquence;  when  he  was  not  able  to  think  of  a  fresh 
oath,  he  stood  up,  opened  the  door,  and,  seeing 
through  the  dimness,  he  took  himself  straight  to 
Mary  huddled  on  the  lowest  step  with  her  head  down 
on  her  knees.  There  was  no  room  for  him  to  sit  be 
side  her  on  the  narrow  step,  so  he  squatted  on  his 
heels  as  cowboys  squat  on  their  high-heeled  boots 
about  a  round-up  fire  and  put  his  hand  over  hers  that 
were  cold  and  wet  with  tears. 

"You've  got  to  let  me  in  on  this,  ma'am,"  he  said; 
" you've  got  to  let  me  in." 

In  the  overwhelming  darkness  within  and  without, 
his  voice  seemed  to  break  down  something  in  Mary's 
heart.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  let  in  upon  her 
trouble  the  warmth  of  human  sympathy.  She  sobbed 
her  story  to  Q  and  her  fingers  clung  to  the  kind  warm 
iron  of  his  hand. 


Concerning  Loves  and  Hatreds  63 

"He  is  such  a  darling,"  she  began,  "and  he  is  such  a 
fine  man  altogether.  I  love  him  so.  You  would  n't 
guess,  Q  dear  —  "  she  had  always  called  him  Mr. 
Kinwydden  before  —  "what  a  heart  he  has,  nor 
what  a  head  for  wit  and  learning  and  wisdom.  He 
has  genius.  It's  the  way  those  brutes  have  treated 
him!  The  cowards!  The  devils!  Oh,  all  because  he 
was  so  much  finer  and  braver  than  any  of  them  could 
possibly  understand.  When  he  was  a  very  young 
man,  not  much  more  than  a  boy  and  living  up  there 
at  the  house  you  visit,  Q,  —  Grinscoombe  Manor,  a 
son  of  old  Mr.  Grinscoombe,  an  own  brother  of  that 
Miss  Selda  Grinscoombe,  —  indeed,  yes,  Q,  he  is!  — - 
he  was  just  a  sensitive,  warm-hearted  boy  and  he  lost 
his  heart  and  his  head  over  a  pretty  little  Irish  maid 
servant.  I  really  think  she  was  the  first  creature  that 
ever  showed  a  human  interest  and  understanding  to 
ward  him.  She  was  very  young  herself  then  and  — - 
and  rash  and  generous.  Q  —  when  he  found  the 
wrong  his  passion  had  done  her  —  "  Mary  faltered* 
"Do  you  understand?" 

"I  savvy,  ma'am;  't  was  because  of  some  such 
wrong-doin's  somewhere  that  my  mother  left  me 
with  the  folks  that  treated  me  so  bad  —  and  that  I 
growed  up  without  a  name." 

"Yes,"  cried  Mary  eagerly,  "and  it's  just  what  my 
father  would  n't  do!  He  married  the  little  Irish  ser 
vant  girl  and  his  family  turned  him  out.  Old  Mr. 
Grinscoombe  never  spoke  to  him  again.  He  showered 
everything  on  Francis,  his  other  son,  and  when  Fran 
cis  died,  after  a  very  creditable  marriage  and  the 


64 "Q" 

birth  of  a  very  creditable  daughter,  then  he  gave 
everything  to  my  Aunt  Selda  —  though  I  've  never 
called  her  that  to  her  face,  mind  you;  and  in  his  will 
he  left  her  everything,  the  money  and  the  mills  and 
the  old  home  my  father  loved,  so.  I  don't  know  why 
Papa  never  went  away  from  here.  He  just  stayed  and 
worked  a  little  and  wrote  his  wonderful  book."  Here 
Mary  straightened  and  Q  felt  her  excited  grip  tighten 
on  his  hand.  "No  one  will  ever  read  his  wonderful 
book,"  she  said.  "I've  sent  it  to  lots  of  publishers.  I 
typed  it  all,  myself  —  pages  and  pages  of  it,  and  I  've 
made  fresh  copies,  but  they  won't  read  it.  I  know,  be 
cause  I  put  a  hair  between  the  pages  and  it  always 
comes  back  not  a  bit  disturbed.  I  think  it  must  be  be 
cause  of  the  first  two  chapters  which  are  rather  vague 
and  wandering;  they  don't  catch  your  attention, 
though  I  never  dared  to  tell  him  so.  But  —  later  on 

-  it's  full  of  wit  and  humor  —  and  quaint  —  and 
it's  very  wise.  Darling  Papa!  Do  you  know  what  his 
name  for  himself  was,  Q?  —  even  when  he  was  a  little 
boy,  and  does  n't  it  show  how  those  Grinscoombes" 

-  she  ground  out  the  hated  name  as  though  it  had 
not  been  her  own  —  "must  have  treated  him!   'The 
Earthworm, ' — that 's  what  he  called  himself.  And  he 
called   his  book  —  'The  Philosophy   of   an  Earth 
worm.  '  When  you  get  your  education,  you  must  read 
it." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Q  gently. 
She  was  sitting  up  straight  and  the  tears  had 
stopped.   Now  she  drooped  again. 

"It  was  after  my  mother's  death  —  and,  Q,  the 


Concerning  Loves  and  Hatreds  65 

passion  was  love,  the  very  best  and  most  patient 
love,  and  it  was  when  he  was  so  poor  and  my  brother 
was  sick  and  we  could  n't  pay  Dr.  Sales's  bill,  that 
Papa  began  to  —  to  drink."  She  had  never  said  this 
of  him  before  and  it  made  her  tremble  to  say  it.  "I  — 
we  tried  so  hard  to  keep  him  away.  And  then  we'd 
take  turns  bringing  him  home  until  Harry  would  n't 
let  me  do  it  any  more.  But  Harry  went  to  New  York 
to  work  and,  afterwards,  he  came  home  very,  very 
ill.  And  died.  .  . 

That  was  Mary's  story.  Q  listened  to  it.  Except 
for  the  two  answers  she  had  called  for,  he  made  no 
comments.  After  the  story  was  told,  he  pushed 
a  beautiful  clean  white  linen  handkerchief  marked 
Q.  T.  K.  by  a  very  expensive  linen  merchant  on 
Fifth  Avenue  into  Mary's  lap  and  she  laughed  and 
blew  her  nose. 

No  other  man  she  had  ever  known  or  ever  would 
know,  perhaps,  could  have  comforted  her  so  sanely 
and  so  surely  as  did  this  queer  pupil  of  hers. 

"Say,"  he  murmured  reasonably,  "lots  of  fellers 
takes  their  drink  and  goes  home  on  a  crooked  trail 
and  none  the  worse  for  it.  He 's  sure  a  real  gentleman. 
But  it  ain't  a  lady's  business  rightly.  You  let  me  see 
to  it.  I  sure  know  the  inside  ways  of  a  bar.  Lady, 
likely,  if  your  Pa  had  a  friend  who  would  drink  with 
him,  he'd  be  hittin'  the  home  trail  when  that  friend 
kissed  his  glass  good-night.  I  ain't  averse  to  a  drink 
nights,  seems  more  home-like  to  me,  sort  of.  Will 
you  let  me  take  up  this  claim,  lady?" 

She  could  only  thank  him;  it  was  hope,  a  gleam 


66 "Q" 

under  the  old  bridge  of  her  care.  All  the  little  shad- 
do  wed  ripples  brightened. 

After  he  had  left  her,  she  kissed  the  handkerchief 
marked  Q.  T.  K.  Also,  she  kept  it.  And  she  has 
it  yet. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  STARS  IN  THEIR  COURSES 

No  step  in  Q's  education  was  to  prove  itself  so  for 
warding  as  the  association  which  his  promise  to 
Mary  brought  about  between  him  and  her  father. 
From  two  extremes  of  loneliness  the  minds  of  scholar 
and  cowboy  drew  quickly  to  a  meeting-point.  And 
the  friendship  was  fostered  truly  —  as  many  a  more 
historic  one  —  by  the  releasing  influence  of  wine.  It 
was  a  key  to  unlock  the  beauty  of  Mr.  Grinscoombe's 
wisdom  and  the  gentleness  of  Q's  chivalry.  He  had 
guessed  right;  a  friend  was  Mr.  Grinscoombe's  need 
rather  than  an  intoxicant.  In  fact  the  sympathetic 
listener  was  the  more  heady  potion. 

Q  anticipated  a  difficulty  in  subtracting  the  little 
tremulous,  vague-eyed  figure  from  its  familiar  corner 
of  the  bar. 

"I'm  agoin'  now,  sir,"  he  said  that  first  night, 
standing  above  the  older  man  with  so  gentle  an  air  of 
deference  that  to  the  outcast  Grinscoombe,  unused 
to  any  show  of  reverence,  he  had  an  incalculable  force 
for  the  restoration  of  self-respect,  "I'm  agoin'  home, 
and  I  was  figurin'  that  the  trail  'd  be  less  lonesome  if 
you  was  ready  to  quit  too.  Or  are  you  plannin*  to 
linger?" 

Half-automatically  Henry  Grinscoombe  got  to  his 
feet,  buttoning  his  carefully  worn  and  threadbare 
coat  with  nervous  fingers.  There  was  a  touch  on  his 


'68 "Q" 

arm.  He  looked  down  at  his  glass.  The  touch  forbore 
to  urge,  but  it  seemed  to  tingle  with  a  need.  He  found 
himself  moving  past  a  row  of  uninquiring  backs  out 
into  the  purple  splendor  of  the  June  night. 

"Say,"  Q  murmured,  feeling  a  sort  of  reactionary 
quiver  in  his  companion,  as  though  he  felt  an  unbear 
able  reproach  in  the  aspect  of  the  night,  "look  at 
them  stars!  What  about  getting  into  the  meadows, 
eh?  for  a  sniff  of  the  hay?  Or  would  you  be  ready  for 
home?" 

"You  are  proposing  a  walk  with  me,  Mr.  Kin wy ol 
den?" 

"If  you'd  be  carin'  to."  It  was  half -wistful, 
wholly  honest,  that  deference  of  Q's.  A  memory  of 
his  dead  son  afflicted  the  little  shaken  gentleman.  He 
put  his  hand  on  Q's  arm.  Their  stroll  took  them 
along  a  shadowy  side  street.  Not  five  minutes  later 
the  Earthworm  found  a  listener,  a  most  accomplished 
holder  of  his  tongue.  The  stars  were  the  occasion, 
seen  through  the  gnarled  branches  of  a  locust  tree. 
"Scorpio,"  Mr.  Grinscoombe  greeted  it,  murmuring 
as  though  to  a  friend,  "Scorpio,  with  Antares  like  a 
red  jewel." 

And  he  pointed  with  his  slender  stick,  using  the 
support  of  Q's  young  iron  arm. 

Q  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  recognized  a  familiar  of 
lonely  ranges. 

"I  did  n't  know  it  had  a  name,"  he  said,  "I'd  like 
to  savvy  that.  It  always  stands  there  to  the  south, 
June  nights.  I've  saw  it  over  Thunder  Mountain." 

"You  don't  know  their  names?"   The  little  man, 


The  Stars  in  their  Courses  69 

excited,  moved  his  stick  across  the  heavens,  pointing 
delicately  world  upon  world,  sun  upon  sun;  the 
wheeling  obvious  constellations  of  the  north,  the  more 
tender  and  mysterious  southerners.  He  sought  an  or 
chard  hill-top,  climbed  a  rock.  Names  and  legends 
began  to  whirl  giddily  in  Q's  head.  He  knew  all  at 
once  his  vast  insignificance  in  a  spinning  universe. 
He  had  the  mysterious  comfort  of  unimportance. 
They  lay  in  the  grass  on  their  backs  and  from  science 
was  born  philosophy.  The  Earthworm  discoursed 
fascinatingly  of  Myths  and  Origins.  His  pure  simplic 
ity  of  speech  had  the  serene  directness  of  the  stars. 
Patterns  of  knowledge  began  to  marshal  themselves 
in  the  retentive  emptiness  of  the  cowboy's  igno 
rance.  An  Historical  Sense  was  born  suddenly  in  him. 
Never  after  that  evening  was  he  in  any  true  sense  of 
the  word  an  ignorant  man.  The  races  that  had 
watched  those  galleon  constellations  move,  that  had 
fastened  names  to  their  glittering  and  haughty  prows, 
that  had  gravely  fashioned  shapes  of  bear  and  scor 
pion  and  lyre,  became  and  remained  living  and  real  to 
him.  When  they  turned  back  that  night,  Q,  with  the 
poet,  felt  "chilly  and  grown  old."  His  brain  had 
stretched  itself  more  powerfully  than  Mr.  Grins- 
coombe's  unaccustomed  legs.  Q  left  the  little  man  at 
his  door,  still  flourishing  cane  and  tongue,  ready  to 
entertain  disciples  until  dawn.  There  was  a  light  in 
Mary's  window,  and  Q,  looking  up,  thought  he  saw 
her  face  looking  down,  all  lighted  from  within,  by  re 
lieved  surprise. 

He  went  back  to  Room  90,  elated  and  abashed.  He 


70 "Q" 

could  n't  sleep.  What  there  was  in  the  world  to  know, 
to  believe,  to  ponder!  What  wisdom  in  the  little  old 
shaky  head  with  its  triumphant  silver  crest!  "And  I 
was  thinkin'  I  could  help  an  old  drunk  —  me/"  There 
were  depths  of  humility  in  that  "me"  which  Q's 
pride  of  a  savage  would  never  allow  any  one  to  dis 
cern.  He  was  very  near  to  the  awful  realization  of  a 
Universal  God  that  night.  He  had  an  impulse  to 
prayer;  perhaps  he  prayed. 

After  that,  Mary's  father  showed  an  impatience 
that  had  not  a  hint  of  shame  for  his  evening  visit  to 
the  bar,  but  he  waited  not  for  a  third  and  fourth  po 
tation,  but  for  the  tall,  swinging  figure  that  rarely 
failed  him.  Q  drank  with  and  listened  to  the  fre 
quenters  of  the  bar,  and  when  he  "kissed"  his  moder 
ate  glass  "good-night,"  more  eager  than  Q's  prophecy 
the  little  gentleman  was  ready  to  accompany  him. 
Sometimes  they  walked,  sometimes  they  went  up  to 
Q's  room;  sometimes  they  came  back  to  Mary.  And 
always  the  old  man  talked  and  the  young  man  lis 
tened.  It  ended  in  Mr.  Grinscoombe's  reading  aloud 
chapters  from  his  book  of  Earthworm  Philosophy,  for 
which  purpose  Q  was  invited  to  supper.  In  the  hard, 
bare  life  that  had  been  his,  the  utterly  untended  bat 
tle  of  its  childhood,  the  single-handed  struggle  of 
its  youth,  there  had  been  nothing  like  these  gentle, 
sheltered  evenings;  Mary  sewing  or  reading,  moths 
knocking  about  the  yellow-shaded  lamp,  Mr.  Grins 
coombe's  quaint  wit,  Mary's  humor-sparkles,  their 
kind  laughter  and  teasing,  the  games  they  taught 
him  to  play  and  played  with  him  —  Sniff  and  Casino 


The  Stars  in  their  Courses  71 

and  Chess  and  Checkers;  the  books  —  besides  the 
Great  One  —  that  they  read  aloud:  Mary's  face  be 
gan  to  live  comfortably  in  his  heart  and  the  quick, 
sweet,  tart  little  sayings  and  the  waggish  kindness  of 
her  eyes  and  mouth  came  very  close  to  his  unused  af 
fection  and  soothed  him  when  the  lady  of  his  longing 
had  dealt  him  wounds  that  would  not  heal  for  all  his 
determined  self-respect. 

It  was  after  one  of  those  woundings,  a  not  alto 
gether  unintentional  one,  for  the  flames  that  attract 
moths  sometimes  are  fed  with  quite  voluntary  cru 
elty,  when  Q  gave  Mary  a  glimpse  into  the  purpose- 
fulness  of  his  Sluypenkill  existence. 

Heloise  had  a  visitor,  a  New  York  broker,  a  wiry 
and  very  animated  gentleman,  who  out-talked  the 
glib  insects  of  a  July  afternoon.  It  was  one  of  Q's 
afternoons,  by  promise,  when  the  broker  unexpect 
edly  appeared,  but  Heloise  had  thrown  over  the  West 
erner's  plan  for  entertainment  with  scant  apology. 

"Mr.  Van  Wenden  has  come  all  the  way  from  that 
sweltering  city,  Q,  so  I  must  give  him  his  reward.  I  'm 
going  to  take  him  into  the  garden  and  give  him  iced 
tea.  You  may  come,  if  you  like.  You  '11  be  interested 
in  what  he  says.  I'll  get  him  to  talk  Wall  Street"  — 
she  teased  Q  with  one  of  her  cool,  long-lidded  looks. 
"What  do  you  know  about  Wall  Street?  That's  part 
of  a  man's  education." 

Q  allowed  himself  an  ironical  exclamation.  "A 
feller  can  learn  hold-up  methods  anywheres,"  he 
drawled;  "Wall  Street  ain't  the  one  and  only  school 
for  'em." 


72 "Q" 

"I  believe,"  she  said,  watching  his  expression 
closely,  "that  you  are  jealous  of  Mr.  Van  Wenden, 

Q." 

At  which  he  suddenly,  and  to  her,  surprisingly,  for 
she  was  well  accustomed  to  his  mask,  burned  fiery 
red,  neck  and  cheek  and  forehead  under  his  eternal 
tan. 

"I'll  bid  you  good-afternoon,  Miss  Grinscoombe," 
he  said,  and  left  her  feeling  altogether  abashed. 

Q's  eyes  smarted  dry  under  his  lids  and  his  throat 
ached  cruelly.  "  She  was  makin'  a  mock  of  my  feelin's 
for  her,"  he  put  it  to  himself;  "makin'  a  mock  when 
I  haven't  spoken  to  her  in  anyways  but  friendliness." 
That  was  what  hurt  and  dimmed  his  image  of  her 
as  a  shining  crescent  moon  above  his  camp-fire  trees, 
that,  when  he  practiced  day  by  day  his  iron  self-con 
trol,  keeping  to  the  plans  he  had  laid  down,  studying, 
how  hard  nobody  knew,  to  be  worthy  of  speaking  to 
her  of  his  love,  she,  like  some  cheap  town  girl,  could 
twit  him  with  as  cheap  a  jealousy.  Yes,  he  was  jeal 
ous,  jealous  of  the  air  that  touched  her  cheek,  but  it 
was  not  for  her  to  taunt  him  with  one  of  the  most 
racking  and  inevitable  of  his  pangs.  Q  had  not  even 
yet  begun  to  realize  the  overwhelming  weight  of  con 
vention  that  hung  about  Heloise  Grinscoombe's 
neck,  could  not  think  from  what  a  conscious  social 
height  she  doled  him  out  her  small  favors,  could  not 
know  that  in  admitting  him  at  all  into  the  Manor  pre 
cincts  upon  a  footing  of  apparent  equality  with  her 
other  friends,  she  was  granting  him  in  her  own  mind 
so  much  that  there  was  little  margin  left  for  smaller 


The  Stars  in  their  Courses  73 

generosities.  That  he  had,  as  Katrina  expressed  it, 
"made  a  perfectly  devastating  hit,"  so  that  even 
Mrs.  Fayre  was  angling  openly  for  him,  had,  of 
course,  its  due  value.  Heloise  amongst  her  circle  en 
joyed  the  pride  of  the  bear-trainer.  She  was  aware  of 
the  silent,  graceful  beauty  and  the  laughter-provok 
ing  originality  of  her  savage,  and  vain  of  her  power 
over  him;  but  she  held  her  trainer's  whip  always 
ready  in  her  cruel  right  hand.  This  —  except  when 
at  moments,  under  his  eyes,  all  the  insignificant  trap 
pings  of  her  soul  fell  from  it  and  she  felt  a  deep  mys 
terious  waver,  a  fluttering  as  though  a  fortress  shook. 
It  was  that  profound  confusion,  visible  more  often 
than  she  knew,  that  kept  him  a  prisoner  of  hope.  To 
a  man  of  his  type  and  experience,  the  life  he  now  led 
was  galling  to  every  fiber.  His  hours  of  study  ex 
hausted  him,  his  social  experiences  bewildered  him. 
He  had  always  practiced  self-control,  it  had  been  a 
necessity  of  his  existence,  but  a  million  little  nerves 
that  had  never  been  teased  into  consciousness  were 
now  daily  stung  and  twisted.  Great  space,  great  lone 
liness,  the  rare  and  humorous  speech  of  round-up  and 
range,  the  quaint  nosing  ways  of  pony-friends,  the 
snow-peaks,  rose  tipped,  iron-gray,  or  purple  as  gob 
lets  filled  with  wine,  the  fairy  aspen  woods,  twinkling 
with  round  green  leaves  and  flowers,  the  somber  pine 
trails  hushed  and  haunted,  the  little  sudden  meadows 
all  warm  and  scented,  where  a  startled  bull-elk  raised 
his  antlered  head  for  a  moment's  noble  hesitation  be 
fore  he  yielded  to  the  trotting,  unhurried  necessity  of 
a  retreat,  the  cottonwoods  smoky  or  ablaze  with  au- 


74 "Q" 

tumn,  the  wide  gray-green  plains  noble  as  the  sea  — 
he  would  wake  at  night  and  gasp  with  a  choked  long 
ing  for  such  familiars.  His  ears  would  be  clattering 
with  sharp,  rapid,  Eastern  voices,  his  sensitive  mem 
ory  pricked  with  the  cold,  inquisitive,  pleasure-seek 
ing  countenance  of  Eastern  folk.  Hate  and  love, 
which  after  all  are  lonely  and  noble  in  certain  intensi 
ties,  kept  him  steady  except  at  such  moments  of  mis 
ery  as  Heloise  had  dealt  him  that  afternoon  with  her 
flippant  reference  to  jealousy.  He  had  his  revenge, 
for  Sir  Sydney's  descendant,  self-revealed  by  Q's 
flush  and  look,  had  smarted  for  her  own  vulgarity; 
but  he  did  n't  know  this  and  the  knowledge  would 
hardly  have  been  a  comfort  to  him.  In  fact,  he  found 
no  comfort  until  he  eased  his  heart  a  little  by  speech. 
It  was  a  cryptic  speech  enough  —  one  of  his  aphor 
isms. 

"Ain't  it  funny,  though,"  he  said,  looking  across 
the  table  at  his  schoolmarm,  who  was  threading  a 
needle  deftly,  leaning  close  to  the  lamp  so  that 
threads  of  fire  moved  about  her  curly  head,  "that  a 
woman  will  say  things  that  a  man  could  n't  abear  to 
think  about  himself  .  .  .  things  that  are  so,  but  that 
she  ought  not  to  let  on  that  she  had  found  them  out." 

Mary  looked  up  from  her  needle.  "I  don't  under 
stand,  Q,  just  what  you  mean." 

"I  mean,  that  a  man  can't  abear  hearin'  from  a 
woman  that  she  has  seed  through  him." 

" Can't  he,  Q?  No,  that 's  true.  He  can't.  I've  no 
ticed  that  myself."  She  smiled.  "I  haven't  seen 
through  you  yet,  have  I?" 


The  Stars  in  their  Courses  75 

The  little  father  was  lost  in  a  volume;  he  was  stand 
ing  in  a  peering  attitude,  candle  in  hand,  at  one  of  the 
corner  bookcases.  He  might  well  have  been  in  Mars 
as  far  as  any  intercourse  with  them  was  concerned. 
Q  gave  him  a  quick  glance. 

"No,  ma'am,"  he  said  earnestly,  "you're  the  most 
comfortable  lady  I  ever  knowed,  and  common." 

For  an  instant  Mary  was  startled,  then  translated 
the  term  into  its  correct  Western  usage  and  glowed. 

"Thank  you,  Q.   I  like  being  that." 

"Yes,  ma'am.  You  had  ought  to.  Commonness  is 
awful  scarce  in  Sluypenkill.  There's  folks  that  are 
real  low-down  and  there's  an  awful  lot  of  re-fine- 
ment,  but  mightly  little  commonness.  Say,  ain't 
Mrs.  Stopper's  crowd  re-fined,  now?" 

"Yes,"  Mary  twinkled  over  her  sewing,  "they  are 
-  frightfully.  How  do  you  get  to  know  so  many 
people,  Q?" 

"I  don't  rightly  savvy,  ma'am.  Jest  by  holdin'  my 
tongue,  I  figure.  I'm  the  only  human  in  Sluypenkill 
that'll  do  any  listenin'.  Folks  are  clean  loco  tryin' 
to  get  a  hearin'.  When  I  have  got  my  edication  I 
ain't  agoin'  to  be  half  so  popular." 

"What  woman  was  it  that  made  the  mistake  of 
seeing  through  you?"  Mary  asked. 

He  gave  her  no  direct  reply. 

"Lots  of  folks,"  he  said,  "cries  for  the  moon,  but 
almighty  few's  willin'  to  work  for  it. 

"I  have  found  out  somethin'  about  an  edication, 
ma'am,"  he  went  on  —  and  for  the  first  time  she  saw 
the  strained  look  about  his  mouth  that  Heloise  looked 


76  "Q" 

at  unseeingly  so  often  —  "that  it  ain't  to  be  had 
rightly  out  of  books.  You  are  doin'  the  very  best  you 
can,  ma'am,  but  I  reckon  it's  too  late  for  me.  The 
kind  of  edication  that  counts  atween  a  man  and 
woman  is  somethin'  different,  and  if  I  was  to  talk  as 
straight  as  a  dictionary  and  knowed  all  the  history 
and  geography  there  is  and  spoked  languages  and 
played  on  the  py-anny  with  all  ten  fingers  like  that 
little  feller  that  lets  the  ladies  call  him  a  poodle- 
dog"  —  this  mysterious  reference  was  to  the  curly 
"Pom,"  who  would  have  been  surprised  by  it  — 
"it  would  n't  rightly  help  me  any.  When  you  come 
right  down  to  it,  it  's  got  to  be  somethin'  deeper  than 
that." 

She  saw  his  hand  clench  and  his  face  lose  its  color. 
There  was  real  anguish  in  his  eyes.  Her  heart  swelled 
to  her  throat. 

"Dear  Q,"  she  said,  "y°u  have  it  —  that  deeper 
thing." 

He  looked  at  her  as  though  in  the  midst  of  his  ap 
parent  composure  he  had  lost  the  power  of  speech. 

"You  want  your  education"  —  she  asked  softly  — 


He  nodded,  and  his  eyes,  after  their  strange  and 
beautiful  fashion,  deepened  and  opened  inwardly,  un 
til  she  saw  his  heart. 

"Ah,  Q!"  It  was  an  exclamation  most  pitiful, 
most  understanding.  It  made  him  wince.  He  turned 
away  and  sat  looking  ahead  of  him.  She  watched  his 
profile  —  a  bronze  bas-relief  against  the  lighter  tint  of 
the  wall.  It  would  not  quiver,  but  it  seemed  to 


The  Stars  in  their  Courses  77 

sharpen.  She  searched  her  very  soul  for  comfort  and 
encouragement  for  him. 

"She  —  she  would  have  to  be  blind  if  she  could  n't 
love  you,  Q." 

He  shook  his  head,  still  staring  in  front  of  him. 

"Loving,"  said  Mary,  putting  down  her  work  and 
holding  it  below  the  table  edge  with  hands  that 
shook,  "goes  deeper  than  education,  Q.  It's  a  man 
and  woman  thing,  you  know." 

At  that  he  turned  to  her  as  though  she  had  kindled 
a  sudden  torch. 

"That's  what  she  said  once,"  he  murmured; 
"that's  what  I'm  holdin'  fast  to." 

Mary  was,  at  heart,  a  mother,  and  that  she  had 
found  the  medicine  for  his  hurt  comforted  her  own 
rarely.  Her  spirit  sang  because  now  she  knew  how  to 
help  him.  Q,  looking  at  her,  saw  a  beauty  that  had 
been  altogether  denied  to  his  childhood,  shining  in  her 
small  face.  He  had  an  impulse  to  kneel  down  and  put 
his  head  on  her  knees  so  that  the  comfort  of  her  hands 
might  hover  over  him.  The  little  room  was  filled  with 
an  exquisite  human  silence. 

Mr.  Grinscoombe,  looking  up  from  his  volume,  con 
templated  them  as  through  a  telescope  from  Mars. 


CHAPTER  VIH 

THE  LETTER  F 

WHEN  a  man  is  very  deeply  engaged  in  courtship  and 
when  his  courtship  is  attended  with  extraordinary  dif 
ficulties,  even  a  little  thing  becomes  a  dragon  in  his 
path.  It  was  not  long  after  the  simultaneous  begin 
ning  of  his  education  and  his  determined  effort  to 
guide  Heloise  back  into  the  interrupted  trail  of  their 
Western  intimacy,  when  a  certain  little  habit  of  his 
lady's  began  to  be  a  torment  to  Q's  nerves.  With  her 
delicate  forefinger,  with  a  bit  of  a  twig,  with  the  tip 
of  a  riding-switch,  with  an  idle  pencil,  Heloise  had  a 
fashion  of  aimlessly,  absently  making  on  any  surface 
the  outline  of  a  letter  F.  It  would  not  always  be  F  to 
begin  with ;  perhaps  it  would  only  be  a  confused  series 
of  hieroglyphics,  but  after  she  had  been  at  it  for  a 
while,  there  would  begin  to  be  the  unmistakable  for 
mation  of  an  F.  There  was  nothing  that  she  did  — 
no  slightest  movement,  no  change  of  expression  or  of 
manner  —  which  his  eyes  missed.  He  very  rarely 
made  a  personal  comment,  but  at  last,  on  a  July  day, 
his  painful  curiosity  as  to  the  meaning  of  her  preoccu 
pation  with  that  spectral  capital  F  forced  itself 
through  his  reticence. 

It  was  during  one  of  their  rides.  Q's  instinct,  or 
perhaps,  his  shrewd  intelligence,  had  told  him  that 
his  best  chance  lay  in  re-creating  as  much  as  possible 
the  atmosphere  of  their  first  intercourse.  Not  long  af- 


The  Letter  F  79 


ter  his  arrival,  when  he  had  endured  a  few  of  Lelo's 
parties  at  the  Manor  —  parties  in  the  atmosphere  of 
which  he,  not  realizing  the  electric  power  of  his  native 
wit  and  controlled  vitality,  felt  himself  to  dwindle,  to 
be  forced  outside  the  magic  circle  which,  with  her 
Eastern  friends,  she  drew  about  her  like  a  spreading 
robe  —  he  came  up  to  the  Manor  on  horseback,  a 
second  horse  on  the  lead.  Unmistakably  Western 
ponies  these,  even  to  the  high-horned  saddles. 

To  Lelo's  exclamations  of  pleasure  and  surprise,  to 
her  questions,  Q,  busy  with  the  stirrup  fastenings,  had 
murmured  vaguely  something  about  the  Sluypenkill 
Livery  Stable. 

"Their  mounts  have  improved  vastly,  then,"  she 
had  said. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  these  two  was  stuck  off  away  out  of 
sight.  Nobody 's  got  any  use  for  a  real  Westerner  in 
Sluypenkill."  Lelo  had  answered  the  sudden  smile 
with  which  he  had  looked  up  after  this  small  thrust 
with  one  that  had  lost  a  great  deal  of  its  coldness.  She 
ran  upstairs  to  pull  out  her  Western  riding-clothes 
and  came  down  looking  once  more  so  like  the  golden- 
haired  wild-rose  boy  of  camp  and  trail  that  Q's  blood 
lifted  from  heart  to  cheek.  He  could  have  shouted 
when  he  saw  her  eyes  falter  away  from  his.  That  was 
one  of  the  glorious  moments  that  repaid  him  for 
hours  of  patient  pain.  After  that,  they  had  ridden  to 
gether  often.  Miss  Selda  would  come  out  to  watch 
them  off.  It  was  increasingly  true  that  she  enjoyed 
her  talks  with  Q,  and  that  he,  in  spite  of  much  secret 
s< winching"  under  the  skillful  jabs  in  which  her 


80  "Q" 

tongue  delighted,  had  developed  a  most  curious  pas 
sionate  interest  concerning  her.  He  watched  her  as  a 
supple  cat  watches  for  a  mouse  —  the  little  timid  hid 
ing  mouse  of  her  character,  timid  beyond  the  habit 
even  of  mice.  But  Q's  watchfulness  had  a  more  than 
feline  patience. 

"You  and  Aunt  Selda  make  me  nervous,"  Heloise 
had  said  once  after  she  had  watched  one  of  their  curi 
ous  interviews.  "I  don't  know  why  —  but  I  feel  that 
something 's  going  to  explode  some  day." 

"/  ain't  agoin'  to  do  no  explodin',"  said  Q,  and 
Miss  Selda,  oddly  enough,  had  deeply  blushed. 

Not  under  Miss  Selda' s  eye,  nor  for  her  experimen 
tal  kindlings,  did  Q  explode.  It  was  Lelo's  little  half- 
conscious  F  that  struck  first  fire  from  him.  They 
were  sitting  on  that  occasion  in  a  tremulous  thicket  of 
birch  high  up  in  one  of  the  mountain  meadows  which 
Q  explored  —  these  old,  old  meadows  in  round- 
headed  hills  so  different  from  the  sky-scraping,  snow- 
hollowed  rocks  of  Wyoming.  Through  the  thicket 
dashed  a  slim  white  brook  —  a  naked  truant,  glitter 
ing  and  shy.  Lights  from  the  water,  shadows  from 
the  leaves  flickered  about  them,  they  were  in  a  me 
dium  of  restless  murmur  and  motion,  whispering,  bab 
bling,  urgent,  secret  voices.  They  were  more  than  usu 
ally  silent;  with  Q,  as  with  most  Westerners,  there 
was  no  necessity  for  speech.  He  lay  at  his  length; 
Heloise,  having  borrowed  his  knife,  was  whittling 
awkwardly  at  a  piece  of  stick.  Her  face  was  as  tran 
quil  as  a  little  girl's.  Q  watched  the  golden-brown 
lashes  throwing  steady  little  lines  of  shadow  under 


The  Letter  F  81 


the  long,  half-hidden  brightness  of  her  eyes.  Her 
pink,  slender  lips  were  laid  quietly  together  —  just 
the  hint  of  bitterness  in  their  delicate  corners.  From 
her  face,  his  eyes  wandered  to  her  hands.  They  had 
cut  a  smooth  flat  space  on  the  round  side  of  the  stick. 
As  he  watched,  he  saw,  fascinated,  that  she  had 
begun  to  carve  a  letter  F.  The  blood  suddenly 
drummed  in  his  ears.  He  sat  up  all  in  one  rippling 
movement  and  bent  close  to  her  work. 

"Why  —  F?"  he  asked  in  a  queer  voice. 

She  did  not  look  up  or  pause  in  her  work,  but  spoke 
rapidly  with  more  passion  than  he  had  ever  heard  in 
her  level  voice.  "Because  I  hate  the  letter  F!  Be 
cause  I  hate  it!"  Her  pupils  suddenly  dilated  and  a 
glow  seemed  to  shine  from  somewhere  deep  within 
her  through  the  clearness  of  her  face.  "  And  because  I 
love  it;"  She  looked  at  Q  defiantly  with  those  di 
lated  eyes  and  bent  her  mouth  down  as  though  she 
meant  to  press  it  to  her  F. 

His  hand  shot  out.  "Don't  you ! "  he  cried  sharply. 
Her  lips  just  brushed  his  intruding  hand.  She  gave  a 
little  angry  cry.  "Take  your  hand  away!"  she  said, 
and,  thinking  that  the  warning  would  be  enough,  she 
cut  at  her  stick  a  little  above  his  fingers,  meaning  to 
cut  in  under  the  initial.  But  her  blade  slipped  and 
drove  deep  into  his  wrist. 

"Oh,  oh,  Q!"  she  cried  in  dazed  repentance.  "I 
did  n't  really  cut  you,  did  I?" 

He  shook  his  head  and  wrapped  his  handkerchief 
around  the  wound  and,  standing  up,  moved  quickly 
away  from  her.  Presently  he  came  back,  leading  the 


82 "Q" 

two  horses.  "I  reckon  it's  time  for  this  party  to  be 
over,"  he  said  heavily.  His  face  was  the  color  of  pal 
est  bronze. 

They  rode  across  the  mountain  meadow  and  down 
into  the  thicket  through  which  Q  crushed  a  random 
trail  until  they  plunged  down  an  abrupt  bank  to  the 
road.  Heloise,  riding  up,  saw  that  even  his  lips  were 
white.  He  had  put  the  injured  hand  into  his  coat 
pocket,  and  she,  glancing  down,  gave  a  little  start 
of  dismay.  The  pocket  was  a  pouchful  of  blood, 
oozing  red,  which  trickled  slowly  down  against  the 
saddle  flap.  She  pulled  up  her  horse.  "Q,  you  must 
get  to  the  doctor,  quick!"  He  said  nothing,  but 
looked  at  her  with  a  strange  deep  look  as  though  he 
were  trying  to  see  into  her  heart  and  had  not  lis 
tened  to  her  speech.  She  spurred  forward,  and  his 
horse  involuntarily  quickened.  So  they  galloped  by 
side  lanes  into  the  town.  Lelo  was  half  a  length 
ahead  when  she  threw  up  her  arm  and  pulled  in 
sharply,  looking  back  at  him  with  a  face  of  vast 
relief. 

"There's  Dr.  Sales's  electric,"  she  said;  "he's 
visiting  one  of  these  little  houses." 

Q  looked  at  her  steadily  for  an  instant,  then  turned 
a  slow  ironic  glance  upon  the  shining  motor  and  the 
shabby  house. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said,  "we'll  go  in."  He  slipped 
from  his  horse  and  Lelo,  coming  quickly  to  his  side, 
caught  at  his  arm. 

"Why,  Q,  dear,  you  can  hardly  stand!" 

"I  feel  kind  of  f -funny  —  like  my  legs  was  agoin'  to 


The  Letter  F  83 


buck."  However,  when  a  small  grave  girl  opened  the 
door  to  their  ringing,  he  took  off  his  hat  with  a  sweep 
ing  Western  gesture  and  performed  the  introduction 
gallantly. 

"Miss  Mary  Grinscoombe,"  he  said,  with  one  of  his 
sudden  candid  smiles,  "meet  Miss  Heloise  Grins 
coombe,"  and  he  stood  back  and  watched  them 
keenly. 

For  the  two  girls  it  was  a  moment  of  acute  embar 
rassment.  Heloise  was  scarlet  and  Mary  white,  her 
head  up  and  Lelo's  down.  Mary  spoke  first,  because 
she  had  seen  Q's  face. 

"You 're  hurt!  "she  said. 

"It's  a  cut  on  his  wrist.  We  —  we  saw  Dr.  Sales's 
car  —  "  Heloise  stammered. 

"Oh,  I  see.  Please  come  in.  Yes,  he  is  here." 

"Your  father  ain't  —  I  mean,  is  n't,"  Q  corrected 
himself  with  a  scared  look  at  his  schoolmarm,  "sick, 
is  he?" 

"Oh,  no.  It's  a  social  visit.  Dr.  Sales  and  I  are 
playing  chess."  She  led  them  in,  still  with  the  proud 
little  lift  of  her  chin,  although  her  eyes  were  entirely 
absorbent  of  anxiety.  "Dr.  Sales,  please!"  she  said, 
"my  Q  —  my  scholar's  here.  He's  hurt." 

Dr.  Sales,  who  was  bending  over  a  chess-board, 
rose  stupendously,  looming  up  in  the  tiny  room.  He 
was  a  wide,  dusty-looking  figure  of  a  man,  with  so 
large  and  soft  an  expanse  of  face  and  body  that  he 
gave  the  impression  of  confined  fluidity.  His  brown 
smooth  suit,  made  of  a  fine  cloth  better  suited  to  a 
woman,  held  swinging  folds  of  fat  at  rest;  the  skin  of 


84 "Q" 

his  face  was  like  the  surface  of  huddled  cream  loose 
about  a  short  nose  and  an  easily  moved  mouth.  His 
small  eyes  were  bright  as  little  sparks  between  puffy 
lids.  He  was,  for  all  this  softness  and  flabbiness,  not 
an  unpleasant-looking  man.  He  had  an  air  of  easy 
good-humor,  a  soft,  pliable,  complaisant  air  and  the 
boyish  expression  given  by  curly  hair.  His  smile 
melted  in  and  out  of  its  creamy  medium.  His  hands 
moved  softly  about  his  person,  now  in  pockets,  now 
across  the  broad  waistcoat,  now  with  stroking  mo 
tions  along  his  knees  —  large,  tender  hands,  seeking 
and  sliding  and  undecided.  They,  and  the  temper 
they  expressed,  had  brought  him,  it  would  seem, 
many  easy  rewards  of  search.  His  habitually  satis 
fied  expression  signaled  success  without  much  effort. 
He  looked,  at  this  moment,  however,  like  a  huge  ves 
sel  empty  of  every  emotion  but  surprise.  From  Lelo 
to  Mary  he  turned  the  little  spark-like  eyes. 

Q  solved  the  immediate  embarrassment  of  the  oc 
casion  by  falling  at  his  full  length  in  complete  silence 
to  the  floor. 

"He's  cut  an  artery  and  severed  a  tendon,"  was 
Dr.  Sales's  verdict.  "He'll  have  to  be  sewed  up. 
Fraction  of  an  inch  more'n'  he'd  have  lost  the  use  of 
his  hand  —  the  nerve  there:  I'd  better  take  him  to 
the  hospital." 

Q's  dense  and  cindery  eyelashes  half -lifted.  There 
was  a  little  steely  gleam  thin  as  a  knife-edge.  He 
spoke  in  a  slow  whisper. 

"I  would  n't  get  dragged  into  that  hospital,  on  a 
rope,"  he  said,  and  paused.  There  was  a  complete 


The  Letter  F  85 


stillness  in  the  room.  "I've  went  through  it,"  con 
tinued  the  same  self-possessed  whisper;  "they  have 
told  me  the  story  of  that  feller  —  the  mill-hand,  who 
come  down  with  blood-poisonin'." 

Dr.  Sales's  face  was  blotched  yellow  and  white. 

"You  fix  me  up  here,  doc,"  Q  went  on.  He  put  out 
a  hand  and  took  Lelo's  hanging  by  her  side.  "I '11  lay 
hold  of  Miss  Grinscoombe  here;  if  she  don't  go  out  of 
the  room,  I  guess  I'm  safe."  He  said  this  with  one  of 
his  small  grim  smiles.  Heloise  stared  at  Dr.  Sales. 
The  blotches  were  swallowed  up  by  a  sort  of  purple 
surge. 

"  He 's  out  of  his  head,"  said  Heloise.  "  Can  you  do 
it  here,  Dr.  Sales?" 

The  doctor  mumbled  something  about  his  "surgi 
cal  case,  ready  for  the  little  DeLaneey  boy,"  and  left 
the  room.  While  he  was  gone,  no  one  spoke.  Heloise 
gazed  down  at  Q,  who  had  closed  his  eyes.  There 
were  bright  spots  of  color  in  her  cheeks.  Mary  said 
hurriedly,  "I'll  get  some  water." 

When  she  came  back,  Dr.  Sales  was  preparing  the 
little  room  for  an  operation. 

"  You  'd  get  ether  at  the  hospital,  my  friend,"  he  said 
dryly  to  his  patient,  "and  here  you  won't.  But  I  sup 
pose  an  Indian  like  you  prefers  pain  to  the  ordinary 
civilized  treatment,  eh?" 

"I  won't  howl  any,"  said  Q,  and  laid  himself  out  on 
the  wicker  lounge  they  had  made  ready  for  him.  He 
had  let  go  of  Lelo's  hand. 

"Don't  you  stay,"  he  said.  "It  won't  be  pretty. 
And  I  was  talkin'  for  doc's  benefit  when  I  said  you  'd 


86 "Q" 

hev  to  see  me  through.  You  gels  step  outside.  I'll 
holler  when  it's  over." 

Heloise  went  out  to  the  little  porch  and  Mary  made 
a  pretense  of  following,  but  just  outside  of  the  sitting- 
room  door  she  stopped,  where  she  was  hidden  from  Q, 
but  where  she  could  watch  the  doctor's  movements. 
Before  the  operation  was  well  under  way,  she  was 
called  in  to  help.  It  was  a  difficult  piece  of  work  and 
took  time.  Q  lay  rigid,  twice  he  relaxed  silently  into 
unconsciousness.  When  it  was  over,  he  drew  a  deep 
sigh. 

"She  can  come  in  now,"  he  said,  and  Mary's  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  sudden,  hot,  inexplicable.  She  ran 
out  of  the  room  and  upstairs.  In  her  bedroom  she 
locked  her  door  as  carefully  as  though  some  one  had 
been  in  dangerous  pursuit,  walked  over  to  her  bu 
reau,  and,  resting  on  her  hands,  which  held  tightly  to 
the  edge,  she  stared  unseeingly  into  a  face  that  she 
might  not  have  recognized. 

"Oh,  Mary,"  she  said  rapidly  to  that  unseen  image. 
"  Oh,  Mary,  please  don't  be  a  fool ! "  Then  she  walked 
over  to  her  bed  and  lay  there  in  a  stillness  as  rigid  as 
Q's  own.  She  was  looking  for  the  first  time  into  the 
eyes  of  young  love  and  she  found  them  stony  and  im 
placable. 

For  a  long  time  she  looked,  until  she  had  conquered 
the  rebel  in  her  heart.  She  stood  up,  stayed  for  a  min 
ute  with  hands  pressed  to  her  eyes,  and  went  slowly 
down  the  stairs.  This  time  she  passed  the  sitting- 
room  door  without  a  glance  and  let  herself  out  on  the 
porch.  The  whole  house-front  was  in  a  glow  of  sun- 


The  Letter  F  87 


set,  and  Mary  stood  in  it  with  her  eyes  lifted  above 
the  huddled  house-roofs  to  the  sky.  Slowly  the 
sweetness  of  her  young  face  conquered  its  bitterness. 
Heloise,  coming  up  behind  her  and  just  touching  her 
arm,  was  startled  by  the  light  of  this  small  dark  face 
as  it  turned  from  the  sunset  to  her. 

"  Oh,  Mary  "  —  Heloise  found  the  beginning  difficult 
—  "I  feel  that  I  must  say  something  to  you  before  I 
leave.  I  don't  know  what  you  think  of  me.  I'm 
afraid  I've  been  a  shameful  coward.  Q  thinks  so. 
But  —  but  —  it  has  been  difficult.  Aunt  Selda  —  " 

Mary  had  returned  from  her  moment  of  exaltation. 
She  began  to  tremble  a  little,  as  strong  feeling  always 
made  her  tremble. 

"I  haven't  been  thinking  of  you  or  of  me,"  she 
said,  the  brogue  thickening  on  her  tongue.  "It's  not 
myself  at  all  that 's  been  hurt,  Heloise.  And  it 's  not 
you  that  I've  been  blaming  all  these  years.  These 
hard  things  have  n't  been  our  fault,  have  they? 
Yours  and  mine?" 

Heloise's  delicate  clear  face  was  on  fire.  "Oh,  I 
don't  know,"  she  said,  trying  to  keep  her  woman-of- 
the-world  lightness.  "Certainly  not  yours,  Mary. 
There  was  nothing  for  you  to  do.  But,  perhaps,  I  — 
if  I  had  tried." 

"Would  your  aunt  have  let  you  do  anything? 
What,  in  any  case,  was  there  for  you  to  do?"  And 
Mary  seemed  more  the  woman  of  the  world. 

"But,  Mary,  she's  our  aunt;" 

Mary,  leaning  against  the  railing,  hands  locked  be 
hind  her,  smiled  faintly.  "Ah,  well!"  she  said,  "I've 


88 "Q" 

had  time  to  forget  that.  Yes,  as  you  see,  I  am  bitter 
—  for  Papa.  It's  been  so  many  years  for  him.  And 
he  loved  that  place  —  that  home.  I  think  he  even 
loved  his  people.  He  has  a  far  better  heart  than  I 
have,  Heloise." 

"I  think,"  said  Heloise,  "that  you  probably  have 
the  best  heart  in  the  world.  Q  tells  me  things  about 
you—" 

So  sure  was  Mary  of  his  loyalty  that  she  smiled. 

"Does  he?" 

Heloise  looked  shrewdly  down  at  her. 

"I  wonder  if  you  like  him  as  much  as  I  do?"  she 
asked. 

To  which  the  other  girl  replied  softly  with  all  her 
waggish  wistfulness  of  Irish  eyes  and  voice,  "Oh,  I 
hope  not!"  and  started  to  go  in. 

Lelo  caught  her  hand  as  she  went  by.  "Mary,  I'm 
going  to  try  to  be  your  friend! " 

Mary  was  generous.  "Thank  you,"  she  said  with  a 
simplicity  which,  after  all,  was  a  complete  expression 
of  her  pride. 

They  went  in  together. 

Dr.  Sales's  patient  was  sitting  up  on  the  wicker 
lounge,  his  arm  in  a  sling.  A  faint  tinge  of  color  had 
returned  to  his  face.  He  got  to  his  feet  as  the  girls 
entered. 

"I'm  agoin'  to  be  took  home  —  taked  home,  I 
mean"  —  this  with  a  furious  sudden  flush,  for  he  felt 
that  he  had  leapt  from  the  frying-pan  of  one  error 
into  the  fire  of  another  —  "  by  doc.  Ain't  that  kind 
of  him?  It  ain't  far  to  the  River  Hotel  and  I've 


The  Letter  F  89 


heard  talk  that  he's  a  steady  driver.  Thank  you 
kindly,  Miss  Grinscoombe,  for  letting  me  use  your 
room.  First  off  I  have  made  it  into  a  schoolhouse  and 
now  I  have  made  it  into  a  hospital.  Your  father  will 
be  coming  soon.  Would  you  please  ask  him  if  he  'd  be 
carin'  to  come  around  to  visit  with  me  this  evening. 
I'll  sure  be  lonesome  without  the  use  of  my  right 
hand  —  no  copy  to-morrow,  ma'am!" 

"How  am  I  to  get  home?"  Heloise  demanded  with 
a  certain  petulance.  She  found  herself  suddenly  hurt 
by  the  look  of  Q's  eyes  resting  during  his  speech  ten 
derly  and  with  an  immense  reverence  on  his  little 
teacher's  face. 

But  the  eyes  at  first  did  not  change  their  direction. 
"Doc's  fixed  it  for  you,"  he  answered  absently,  "on 
the  telephone.  Your  aunt's  sending  a  motor  for 
you  and  a  feller  from  the  stables  is  to  come  for  the 
bosses  —  "  Then  he  did  turn  fully  toward  her  and 
held  out  his  left  hand. 

"I  ain't  done  askin'  questions,"  he  said  grimly, 
"about  that  letter  of  yours." 

Her  face  flushed.  "  Oh,  you  won't  get  very  far  with 
that  —  my  dear  Q.  That  letter  does  n't  mean  very 
much  in  my  young  life."  She  laughed  her  gay,  cool, 
little  laugh.  "I  might  just  as  easily  take  to  making  a 
4 Q,'"  she  said. 

With  that  she  left  him,  looking  suddenly  paler  than 
ever,  and  she  went  out  and  stood  beside  the  motor 
watching  his  slower  departure. 

The  doctor's  complexion  was  still  blotchy.  He  said 
good-bye  to  Mary  rather  sullenly  and  did  not  smile 


90  "Q" 

even  at  Miss  Selda  Grinscoombe's  more  important 
niece.  He  sat  himself  down  heavily  beside  Q  and 
started  his  car  with  a  jerk  that  made  the  patient 
wince. 

Almost  before  they  had  left  the  curb  he  began, 
turning  his  great  body  sideways.  "  Now  you  will  have 
to  account  for  yourself,  Mr.  Kinwydden,"  he  said. 
"I  object  to  being  tracked  about  this  place  by  an  ar 
rant  outsider  like  yourself.  Sluypenkill  is  my  place  of 
business  as  well  as  my  home.  I  am  a  respected  and 
not  unimportant  citizen."  His  effort  to  be  forceful 
and  awful  shook  his  cheeks  and  the  folds  hammocked 
in  his  waistcoat.  "You  will  get  yourself  into  very 
serious  trouble  if  you  are  not  careful.  I  insist  upon 
some  sort  of  explanation  from  you,  and  upon  apol 
ogy  and  a  promise  to  desist  from  actionable  annoy 
ance.  Do  you  understand  me?  " 

Q's  pale,  quiet  face  met  the  doctor's  little  fiery  eyes 
with  its  imperturbability.  After  a  minute,  "Explain 
yourself,"  spluttered  the  doctor.  "Don't  think  that 
I  have  n't  heard  of  you  —  of  your  prying  visit  to  the 
Mills  Hospital,  of  your  call  upon  the  editor  of  Sluy 
penkill  'News,'  of  your  general  scandal- mongering 
amongst  my  patients.  Come,  now,  your  hold-up 
methods  won't  go  down  with  me.  Other  people  have 
found  me  a  difficult  enemy.  I've  run  a  couple  of 
youngsters  out  of  this  town  — " 

"You  don't  say?"  murmured  Q,  and  the  doctor 
wished  this  information  unspoken.  He  stumbled  on. 

"You've  got  no  job  to  lose,  but  you  have  your 
interests  here  —  don't  think  I  have  n't  seen  that, 


The  Letter  F  91 


presumptuous  as  such  intentions  may  be  on  the  part 
of  a  nameless  foundling  from  a  cow-camp.  And  let 
me  tell  you,  your  chance  of  visiting  out  at  Grins- 
coombe  Manor  is  a  slim  chance  if  I  register  my  vote 
against  you.  Do  you  understand?  You're  there  dis 
tinctly  on  my  sufferance,  quite  distinctly  —  I  mean" 
—  he  puffed  under  Q's  unchanging  look  —  "I  mean 
as  a  family  friend,  as  a  family  physician,  my  word  has 
weight." 

"It  had  ought  to  have  plenty  of  that,"  murmured 
the  Westerner  sweetly  and  allowed  his  eye  to  run 
down  over  the  multiplied  folds. 

The  motor  took  a  corner  rather  carelessly  and  slid 
with  diminished  speed  along  the  main  street. 

"Hi,  you,  Q,  what  yo'  doin'  in  that  car?"  called  a 
young  workman  in  dingy  overalls  returning  from  the 
mills  with  his  lunchbox  in  his  hand. 

The  doctor  flushed.  "You  think,"  he  began  again 
a  trifle  breathlessly,  "that  you  have  been  clever  at 
picking  up  acquaintances.  "  I  Ve  noticed  that,  during 
the  month  of  your  stay  here,  you  Ve  got  to  know  all 
the  riff-raff  of  the  place."  The  car  stopped.  "Here's 
your  hotel.  Before  you  get  out,  I  want  that  promise 
and  that  apology." 

"You  ain't  agoin'  to  get  'em,  doc,"  Q  answered 
gently.  "  I  don't  exactly  savvy  what  you  kin  do  about 
it." 

"I'm  going,  for  one  thing,  to  cut  short  your  social 
career,  as  well  as  your  education  —  which  will  prob 
ably  hurt  Miss  Mary  more  than  it  will  you  — " 

"You've  got  a  drag  with  Miss  Mary  same's  with 


92  "Q" 

the  old  lady."  Q  said  this  as  though  he  had  made  a 
statement  to  himself. 

The  doctor  was  aware  of  a  frightened  contraction 
of  his  nerves,  but  he  ignored  it.  He  managed,  how 
ever,  a  change  of  tone. 

"You'd  rather  have  me  for  a  friend  than  for  an 
enemy,  would  n't  you,  young  man?  "  he  asked.  "  Can 
you  have  too  many  friends  in  this  somewhat  ambi 
tious  career  you  have  chosen  for  yourself?" 

Q's  steady  gaze  had  become  a  sort  of  torment,  an 
X-ray  burning  into  the  doctor's  most  sensitive  and 
secret  nerve  centers;  cold  and  gray  and  terribly  search 
ing  —  Sales  wanted  to  put  up  his  hands  between  him 
self  and  it. 

"Yes,  sir,"  Q  was  speaking,  "I  sure  need  your 
friendship.  But  it's  a  luxury  I  can't  afford  to  treat 
myself  to.  There's  some  things  too  dirty  to  handle. 
I'll  hev  to  ask  you  to  keep  on  bein'  my  enemy." 

"I  believe"  —  Dr.  Sales  chose  his  words  carefully, 
hunting  as  though  for  a  sharp  and  painful  instrument 
—  "that  Miss  Grinscoombe  has  some  small  use  for 
you  at  present,  in  her  scheme  for  her  niece.  When 
you  have  served  her  purpose,  I  shall  see  that  your 
intercourse  with  Grinscoombe  Manor  is  at  an  end. 
After  all,  the  apology  is  unimportant.  You  may  get 
out." 

Q  climbed  down  slowly.  He  was  weak  from  pain 
and  loss  of  blood,  but  his  companion  made  not  even  a 
gesture  of  assistance.  On  the  pavement,  Q  turned 
and  looked  steadily  at  Dr.  Sales.  The  cool,  brilliant 
eyes  gathered  light. 


The  Letter  F  93 


"Thanks,"  he  said  gravely  as  though  he  meant  it, 
and  walked  rapidly  and  with  grace  into  the  hotel. 

That  cryptic  word  of  gratitude,  as  for  some  service 
rendered,  wormed  itself  uncomfortably  deep  into  the 
doctor's  consciousness.  He  drove  away  with  uncer 
tainty  at  heart.  He  had  said  too  much.  His  memory, 
weighted  by  Q's  silence  and  stung  by  his  caustic  and 
amazing  bit  of  knowledge,  accused  him  of  infantile 
volubility.  If  only  the  fellow  had  been  goaded  into 
angry  speech,  instead  of  silently,  coolly  collecting 
some  sort  of  information  with  those  terrible  gray 
eyes!  But,  pshaw!  the  doctor  reassured  himself,  his 
uncertain  hands  sliding  about  the  steering-wheel. 
"I'm  safe;  I'm  safe."  The  comfortable  look  of  hud 
dled  cream  came  back  slowly  to  his  face. 


CHAPTER  IX 

MORE  ABOUT  THE  LETTER  F 

FERDINAND  FADDEN,  deep  in  a  wide  wicker  chair,  a 
tall  beaded  glass  at  his  elbow,  gazed  fixedly  at  Heloise 
from  under  his  heavy  lids.  With  the  hand  not  oc 
cupied  with  his  drink,  he  twisted  the  spiked  end  of  a 
tiny  blond  mustache.  His  eyes,  large  and  very  blue, 
were  contemplative,  indolent  and  sultry,  like  the 
August  day.  Outside  the  shadow  of  the  Manor  ve 
randa,  insect  voices  droned  and  swelled  like  rising  and 
falling  waves,  the  sun  gleamed  across  the  molten 
steel  surface  of  the  river  above  which  the  air  quivered 
like  the  air  inside  a  furnace. 

Ferdinand's  body  of  an  athlete  glowed  inside  the 
thin  silk  of  his  shirt,  his  face  was  burnt  brick-red  up 
to  a  white  line  across  his  forehead  just  below  the  dense 
straight  border  of  his  blond  hair.  There  was  a  for 
ward  thrust  to  his  mouth  and  jaw  which  gave  him  an 
expression  of  insolent  discontent;  it  needed  all  the 
lazy  serenity  of  eyes  and  brow  and  pose  to  counteract 
the  look. 

"Your  aunt,"  said  Ferdinand,  "does  n't  like  me  a 
little  bit.  When  I  buzzed  in  to-day  her  face  was  about 
as  welcoming  as  a  bank  safe." 

Heloise  lay  amongst  cushions  in  a  canvas  swinging 
lounge.  She  seemed  oppressed  by  a  heavy  languor 
ous  excitement,  her  face  was  pale  and  her  eyes  strug 
gled  away  from  his,  coming  back  continually  with  a 


More  About  the  Letter  F  95 

fluttering  uncertainty;  it  was  as  though  she  felt  a 
younger  and  more  helpless  Heloise;  the  artificial  self- 
possession  of  her  usual  little  manner  had  left  her 
somewhat  shy  and  without  defense.  Nevertheless, 
she  answered  him  daringly  with  an  effort  at  her  cool, 
staccato  laugh. 

"She's  afraid,"  said  Lelo,  "that  I'm  going  to  lose 
my  head  over  you."  Her  voice  was  a  trifle  breath 
less. 

"I  wish  there  was  a  chance  of  it!"  he  flung  out 
sulkily.  "If  Lucy  had  n't  got  me  in  for  this  blamed 
yachting  trip,  so  that  I  had  to  cut  off  and  leave 
you  — "  he  paused,  for  Lelo's  cheeks  had  kindled  and 
there  was  a  lift  to  her  head  which  he  recognized  as  a 
danger  signal. 

"If  you  had  n't  —  ?"  she  angled  for  a  further  jus 
tification  of  her  anger. 

"If  I  had  n't  had  to  leave  you,"  he  murmured  with 
a  sudden  gentleness  as  droning  as  the  gentleness  of 
insect  voices,  "  I  might  have  had  a  peaceful  summer 
instead  of  the  sort  of  —  hell  I've  been  put  through 
for  these  past  two  months.  Don't  be  nasty  to  me 
now,  will  you,  Lelo?  Something's  changed  you  while 
I  've  been  away.  You  were  a  whole  lot  sweeter  to  me 
last  winter  —  last  spring." 

"I  —  I  —  you  can't  expect  me  to  be  sweet  to  a 
deserter,  Ferdy.  You  went  off  to  be  gay  and  left  me 
here  in  this  dull  hole  to  bore  myself  to  death.  Sluy- 
penkill  is  not  exactly  a  round  of  excitement  for  me  — 
when  you're  away." 

"You  little  flirt!  How  many  hearts  have  you  been 


96 "Q" 

breaking  in  revenge  for  my  desertion,  eh?  Deser 
tion!"  He  echoed  it  ironically.  He  leaned  forward, 
resting  the  thrusting  jaw  on  his  two  large  handsome 
hands;  his  eyes  seemed  to  darken  and  thicken  in  color 
like  a  thunderous  sky.  "You  know  just  how  much  of 
a  desertion  it  was,  Lelo!  Why  do  you  cut  me  like 
that?  It  hurts  confoundedly/'  He  wrinkled  his  brows 
into  two  dents,  a  surprisingly  boyish  attempt  at  a 
frown  of  injury.  "Lucy- — "  he  said,  and  paused, 
then  went  on  hurriedly  in  a  lower  tone  —  "Well,  it 
is  n't  as  if  she  deserved  any  consideration  from  me." 

"I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  talk  about  your  wife, 
Ferdinand." 

He  got  up,  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  veranda  and 
stretched  his  arms  high  over  his  head.  "O  Lord! "  he 
groaned;  then,  dropping  his  arms,  he  strode  over  to 
her  and  stood  looking  down  at  her.  Lelo  lifted  her 
long,  clear  eyes  and  they  were  held  by  his.  There 
followed  a  heavy  silence  in  which  the  fragrance  of 
clematis,  of  heliotrope,  of  mignonette,  became  as  in 
sistent  as  a  chanted  melody.  A  little  moisture  showed 
in  a  bright  line  above  Ferdinand's  lower  lids.  He 
caught  at  her  hand.  "You  —  you  beautiful!"  he 
choked  over  the  exclamation,  then  went  on  quickly, 
his  rather  heavy  lips  fumbling  over  the  words.  "  You  '11 
come  out  to-night?  About  ten?  There's  a  moon.  If 
you  think  your  aunt  will  make  a  fuss,  I'll  stop  out  at 
the  gate.  I  won't  toot  for  you.  If  you'll  be  prompt. 
I  can't  stand  waiting  —  not  for  you! " 

She  nodded  slowly,  heard  a  sound,  and  stood  up, 
withdrawing  her  hand.  He  turned  hastily  to  see  what 
she  was  looking  at. 


More  About  the  Letter  F  97 

"I  want  you,"  she  said,  "to  meet  my  Western 
friend,  Mr.  Kinwydden."  The  heavy,  sultry,  languor 
ous  excitement  lifted  from  her  face. 

Q  had  come  up  the  veranda  steps  and  was  advanc 
ing  toward  them. 

A  sudden  cold  north  wind  blowing  into  a  fever- 
room  could  not  have  been  more  destructive  to  the 
atmosphere  of  Ferdinand's  love-making  than  was  the 
presence  of  the  Westerner.  He  had  never  looked  more 
grim  and  cool.  Four  days  of  pain  and  imprisonment 
and  hard  thinking  in  the  hotel  bedroom  had  thinned 
his  face  and  paled  its  bronze.  To  Mary  he  had  once 
said  —  "Temper  is  a  mighty  bad  thing  to  lose,  but  a 
mighty  fine  thing  to  keep  —  it  settles  your  head  like 
egg-shells  does  coffee."  If  it  could  be  confined  to  the 
thinking  rather  than  the  feeling  portion  of  the  mind, 
he  had  discovered,  it  acted  as  a  powerful  clarifier. 
It  seemed  to  burn  up  in  cold  fire  the  non-essential 
observations.  But  his  anger,  though  controlled,  was 
of  a  quite  primitive  intensity.  By  Dr.  Sales  he  had 
been  called  "a  nameless  foundling  from  a  cow-camp  "; 
his  ardent  and  humble  hope  had  been  flouted  as  laugh 
able,  insolent;  the  purpose  to  which  he  had  bent  the 
steel  fibers  of  his  will  had  been  named  presumption; 
he  had  been  told  that  the  lady  of  the  Manor  had  some 
"small  use"  for  him  and  that  when  he  had  filled  this 
minor  use,  he  was  to  suffer  an  ignominious  turning- 
out.  He  knew  that  this  last  was  not  an  idle  threat. 
Better  men,  by  Dr.  Sales's  own  admission  —  a  boast 
which  Q  had  since  taken  pains  to  verify  —  had  been 
run  out  of  Sluypenkill  for  daring  to  criticize  the  lazy 


98  "Q" 

and  inefficient  methods  of  its  physician.  Dr.  Sales's 
indolence  and  incapacity  had  grown  through  pro 
tected  years  to  almost  criminal  proportions,  but  for 
some  reason  he  was  established  above  punishment. 
Q,  prowling  about  Number  90  or  lying  rigid  on  its 
bed  with  his  well  hand  clenched  above  his  head,  had 
pondered  over  Dr.  Sales,  weighing  and  dissecting  the 
scraps  of  evidence  incautiously  dropped  by  the  man 
about  himself,  until  a  surprisingly  clear,  consistent, 
and  penetrative  picture  of  his  career  had  marshaled 
itself  in  the  cowboy's  shrewdly  observant  intelligence. 
He  had  won  more  than  thinness  and  pallor  from  his 
confinement. 

"This  is  Ferdinand  Fadden,  Q,"  said  Heloise,  "an 
old  friend  of  mine  —  your  hand  is  n't  well  yet,  is  it? 
Still  in  a  sling." 

"It's  well  enough  for  some  things,"  said  Q  slowly; 
there  was  a  smile  in  the  eyes  he  fixed  upon  Ferdinand, 
a  reminiscent  sort  of  smile,  "but  I'm  not  doing  any 
hand-shaking  yet.  Mr.  Ferdinand  Fadden  will  hev 
to  excuse  me." 

Fadden  appraised  him  negligently.  It  was  a  puz 
zling  apparition;  his  eyes  appealed  to  Heloise. 

"Q  was  one  of  our  guides  out  West  last  fall,  Ferdy 
—  on  the  hunting  trip  I  took  with  Mrs.  Fayre  and 
Tommy  —  you  know." 

"U-m,  I  see."  Fadden  turned  away  from  him  as 
though  he  had  lost  interest.  "Well,  I'll  leave  you  to 
your  Western  reminiscences."  He  took  her  hand,  try 
ing  by  a  look  to  bring  back  the  heat  to  her  face  and 
eyes.  But  it  had  vanished  past  immediate  recall. 


More  About  the  Letter  F  99 

"To-night?  "  he  moved  his  lips  to  make  the  word  and, 
as  she  nodded,  he  walked  triumphantly  away,  pass 
ing  Q  with  a  curt  nod. 

"I'm  going  out  there  myself  after  big  game  one  of 
these  days,"  he  said,  hanging  on  his  heel.  "Better 
sign  up  with  me  while  you're  here,  Q.  How  many 
parties  have  you  got  out  of  Sluypenkill,  eh?" 

"Mr.  Kinwydden  is  not  here  to  sign  up  humting 
parties,  Ferdy." 

"What  the  deuce-o,  after  big  game  himself,  is  he?" 
Fadden  lifted  his  eyebrows  and  glanced  sardonically 
back  at  Heloise.  A  queer,  silent  ripple  seemed  to 
pass  over  Q's  body  from  head  to  foot,  though  he  said 
nothing  and  did  not  even  change  his  mask. 

Said  Heloise  quickly,  "He's  a  dead-sure  shot!" 

"Oh,  you  need  n't  try  to  frighten  me.  I'll  be  care 
ful.  I  know  my  West.  Father  made  his  fortune  in 
cattle,  you  know,  when  there  were  fortunes  to  be 
made  at  that  particular  game.  He  wanted  me  to  be  a 
cowboy  —  Jove!  He  did,  Lelo!  I've  visited  cow- 
camps,  though  you  might  n't  think  it  —  eh,  Q?" 

The  Westerner  stood  silent  and  expressionless. 

"Visitin'  cow-camps,"  he  said,  drawling  his  words 
a  little,  and  Lelo  found  herself  suddenly  attacked  by 
mirth  at  Ferdinand's  expense.  The  picture,  surpris 
ingly  complete,  Q's  tone  drew  of  that  gentleman's  so 
cial  ventures  in  the  West  compelled  amusement.  The 
victim  missed  the  impulse.  He  went  away  tingling 
slightly  as  though  his  vanity,  like  a  funny-bone,  had 
been  numbed. 

"Visitin'   cow-camps,"   repeated   Q,   taking   the 


100  "Q" 

chair  Ferdinand  had  left.  He  seemed,  all  at  once  and 
rather  inexplicably,  in  the  sweetest  of  gay  good- 
humors. 

"Say,  gel,  give  me  one  of  those  long  drinks  like  the 
one  you  gave  Fer-dee-nand,  will  you?  " 

She  granted  this  request  and  watched  him,  the 
amusement  still  twinkling  over  her  face.  His  meeting 
with  Fadden  had  touched,  for  some  reason,  a  conver 
sational  spring,  for  he  began  to  talk  to  her  as  he 
talked  sometimes  when  they  were  alone,  out  West 
over  a  camp-fire  or  riding  on  a  belated  trail  together 
under  the  stars  —  splendid  heady  talk,  of  adventure, 
spicy  as  sage,  tangy  as  mountain  air,  delightful  with 
unexpected  traps  of  humor  into  which  a  listener 
plunged  with  mirth-releasing  suddenness.  Lelo  for 
got  the  heat  of  the  late  afternoon  and  of  a  certain 
emotion  that  both  shamed  and  thrilled  her.  She  sat 
up  childlike,  with  wide  eyes  and  parted,  smiling  lips. 
There  was  no  further  mention  of  Fadden  until  Miss 
Selda  appeared,  gowned  in  delicate  black  lace,  a 
long,  plumy  fan  hanging  at  the  length  of  its  chain  at 
her  side.  Q  rose  to  greet  her  and  received  a  smile  and 
the  welcoming  gesture  of  her  upturned  hand. 

Her  gray,  stone-colored,  slow  eyes  traveled  search- 
ingly  about  the  veranda. 

"So  Ferdinand  has  gone  and  there  is  only  one 
young  man  to  be  asked  to  dinner.  You'll  stay,  Q." 

It  was  a  command  and  he  acquiesced.  He  was  not 
so  talkative  at  dinner.  Miss  Grinscoombe's  conde 
scensions  forbade  the  lifting  of  his  visor;  besides,  he 
was  still  careful  concerning  knives  and  forks  and 


More  AJ}Qut;th£  ijetW'S  "  101 

table  deportment;  the  waitress  especially  disturbed 
his  equanimity,  or  rather  the  necessity  he  was  under 
to  exclude  her  from  the  conversation.   He  had  made 
the  blunder  of  cordially  including  her  at  first,  and 
later  smarted  in  bewilderment  under  Lelo's  instruc 
tions.    After  dinner,  imprisoned  in  the  South  Parlor 
under  the  eyes  of  Sir  Sydney  Grinscoombe,  he  was  en 
tirely  mute,  secretly  observant  of  Lelo's  increasing 
restlessness.  Miss  Selda  read  aloud  inflexibly  from  the 
evening  paper.   She  was  not  unaware  herself  of  her 
niece's  Sittings  and  nervous  fingerings  of  this  object 
and  that.  When  the  girl  slipped  out  with  an  indistin 
guishable  murmur  of  excuse,  Miss  Selda  folded  her 
newspaper  and  laid  it  quickly  down  across  her  knees, 
clenching  her  hands  about  it.  So  she  sat  for  five  min 
utes,  stone  still,  staring  as  though  at  something  she 
unwillingly  remembered.    The  long  yellow  curtains 
were    then   parted,  between  which   for   an   instant 
Heloise's  beauty  glimmered.     She  was  carrying  a 
crimson    cloak   across  her  arm.    It  streamed  down 
her  white    dress  almost  to  the  floor.     Her  golden 
head  was  dark,  brightly  outlined]  against  the  hall 
light.    Her  eyes  were  distended,  and  spots  of  color 
burned  in  her  cheeks. 

"I  am  going  out  for  a  little  spin  with  Ferdy,"  she 
said  without  defiance,  but  without  deference  —  a 
neutral  tone  in  curious  contrast  to  her  vivid  and 
excited  look.  Immediately  she  let  the  curtains  fall 
and  ran  out  of  the  house. 

Miss  Selda  lifted  her  head  on  its  long  throat  and 
set  her  lips  together.  Her  eyes  moved  to  Q  and  he 


102        ::  "Q" 

was  aware  of  an  appeal,  proud,  deep,  unspoken.  He 
could  see  the  band  of  velvet  on  her  neck  move  as  she 
swallowed  nervously. 

"You  got  no  call  to  be  af eared  of  me,  Miss  Grins- 
coombe,"  said  Q  gently. 

It  was  perhaps  the  strangest  speech  ever  addressed 
to  her,  and  her  reception  of  it  was  no  less  strange. 
She  let  it  pass  with  a  queer  little  shrinking  movement 
as  though  it  had  sped  just  above  her  shoulder  like  a 
dart.  She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  and  slowly 
she  lifted  her  hand  to  her  mouth  and  laid  it  across  her 
lips;  the  quiver  of  them  must  be  hidden,  now  that  it 
could  no  longer  be  controlled.  She  spoke  behind  the 
hand  indistinctly. 

"I  could  not  bear  it  for  Heloise,"  she  said  mysteri 
ously.  And  then:  "You  must  help  me  with  her — • 
the  man  is  bad  through  and  through,  dangerous,  self 
ish,  passionate;  he  —  he  excites  her."  She  said  it  in 
a  manner  absolutely  different  from  her  usual  deliber 
ate  choice  of  impeccable  syllables  —  a  manner  of 
groping  helplessness,  monotonous  in  tone. 

Q  was  so  white  that  she  might  have  noticed  it. 
Perhaps  she  did,  but  his  pain  was  no  affair  of  hers. 
The  tyrant  may  torture  the  slave  that  sees  his  treas 
ure,  with  impunity;  the  relief  of  a  confidence  is  all  the 
necessity. 

"You  have  influence  with  her,"  went  on  the  queer 
voice.  Miss  Selda  dropped  her  hand.  Her  lips  were 
still  twisted  out  of  their  usual  composure.  The  hand 
clenched  itself  on  her  knees  and  she  leaned  forward 
slightly  with  the  tense  appearance  of  a  traveler  who  is 


More  About  the  Letter  F  103 

impelled  by  an  inner  urgency  to  tighten  nerves  and 
muscles  as  though  by  so  doing  he  could  force  the 
vehicle  to  greater  speed. 

"You  are  a  man  and  you  are  her  lover.  Your  in 
fluence  over  her  just  now  is  ten  times  stronger  than 
mine.  You  must  hold  her  back  from  the  dangers  of 
her  own  temperament.  You  don't  realize  those  dan 
gers  —  how  could  you?  But  you  must  take  my  word 
for  them.  Whatever  you  are  —  you  —  you  love  her 
as  I  could  wish  her  to  be  loved,  as,  in  her  wiser  mo 
ments,  she  wants  to  be  loved.  That  kind  of  love  ex 
presses  itself  in  service.  This  —  this  horrible  thing 
began  last  winter.  She  was  bored,  disappointed  — • 
she  expects  too  much  of  life.  He  has  a  certain  charm. 
He  can  make  love.  You  can  see  that  by  looking  at 
him.  Once,  Q"  —  she  seemed  to  choose  with  white- 
hot  certainty  the  surest  goad,  the  most  stinging  lash 
to  action  —  "I  saw  those  heavy  lips  of  his  on  her 
hand,  and  I  saw  in  her  face  that  it  meant  evil  for  her. 
I've  been  studying  you,  been  watching  your  extraor 
dinary  power  over  her.  She  swings  back  to  sanity,  to 
wholesome  girlhood  in  your  company  as  though  you 
were  a  sort  of  magnet.  But  he  can  pull  her  away  from 
you.  He  can  appeal  to  her  sympathies.  He  is  mis 
erably  married  to  a  woman  who  plays  fast  and  loose 
with  his  life  and  her  own.  He  has  bee*n  fatally  brought 
up.  The  money  of  a  parvenu  crammed  into  his  pockets 
since  his  babyhood.  His  will  has  never  been  crossed. 
He  is  as  greedy  as  a  spoiled  child,  as  willful,  as  un 
disciplined.  He  has  n't  an  ideal  or  a  standard  or  a 
moral  anchor  in  his  soul.  He's  a  highwayman.  I  wish 


104  "Q" 

I  could  make  you  feel  the  danger  he  is  to  her  —  ro 
mantic,  excitable  as  she  is.  I  tell  you,  the  way  he 
looks  at  her  is  an  insult.  He  wants  to  possess  her.  He 
wants  to  break  her  delicate  pride  to  his  own  unbridled 
will." 

She  stopped,  breathless.  In  astonishing  contrast 
came  Q's  quiet,  slow  voice. 

"Some  of  that  is  real  bronc,  Miss  Grinscoombe, 
and  a  whole  lot  of  it  is  hokey-pokey.  I  mean  to  tell 
you  that  you  hev  lost  your  head  a  little.  She  ain't 
near  so  far  gone  as  that  you  have  pictured  it  and  he 
has  still  got  the  fear  of  God  in  his  heart.  I  have  seen 
them  together  jest  once  and  I  knowed  right  off  that 
some  of  what  you  have  been  tellin'  is  there.  He  is 
makin'  love  to  her  almighty  hard,  for  all  he's  worth, 
I  reckon.  And  she  — "  Q  stopped  abruptly,  stood  up 
and  walked  across  the  room  to  stand  beneath  Sir 
Sydney  Grinscoombe,  his  back  turned  to  Miss  Selda, 
staring  unseeingly  up  into  the  wedge-like  and  con 
temptuous  face  of  the  portrait. 

"I  can't  quirt  myself  into  talkin'  about  her  thata- 
way,"  Q  whispered. 

After  an  instant  he  came  back  and  stood  beside 
Miss  Selda. 

"Don't  you  worry,"  he  said;  "quit  troubling  your 
heart  about  the  gel.  I  figured  from  watchin'  you  you 
hev  had  a  bad  fright  onct  and  it's  left  you  sort  of 
head-shy."  Miss  Selda  winced  and  the  uncontrollable 
tremble  assailed  her  restored  rigidity.  "I  savvy  how 
you  feel.  A  hoss  went  over  backwards  with  me  onct 
and  hurt  me  bad  and  it  made  a  plumb  coward  out  of 


More  About  the  Letter  F  105 

me  about  bein'  reared  with.  Let  a  hoss  go  back  a  lit 
tle  and  my  courage  turns  upside  down  inside  of  me." 

"But  you'll  watch  over  her,  Q?" 

She  was  looking  up  at  him  as  from  a  sinking  ship. 
He  took  the  hand  she  held  up  and  it  was  cold  in  his 
grip.  Q's  steady  and  pitiful  look  respected  her  self- 
revelation.  He  was  still  white  from  the  quite  sicken 
ing  pain  her  word  pictures  had  given  him,  but  for  the 
first  time  in  her  presence  he  made  use  of  his  candid 
smile.  It  fell  over  her  like  the  gleam  of  a  knightly 
sword. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said. 

Curiously,  as  she  received  the  assurance,  she  could 
no  longer  meet  his  eyes.  Hers  fell;  she  drew  her  hand 
away  and  a  deep  flush  came  over  her  face. 

"She's  plumb  ashamed  of  herself  for  treatin'  me 
like  a  human  critter,"  Q  interpreted  it,  "for  showin* 
herself  to  be  a  woman." 

But  his  interpretation  was  not  the  right  one.  Shame 
Miss  Selda  did  feel,  and  a  profound  shaken  astonish 
ment  at  his  perspicacity.  But  it  was  a  shame  vastly 
mitigated  by  his  unimportance.  The  feeling  that 
provoked  the  blush  was,  however,  from  a  deeper 
cause.  That  she  had  this  feeling  at  all  proved  that 
beneath  the  pride  and  selfishness  and  hardness  of  her 
worldliness  Q  had  touched  one  small  soft  spot  that 
might  once  have  been  the  germ  of  compunction. 
When  he  had  gone  she  sat  for  a  long  time  looking  up 
into  Sir  Sydney  Grinscoombe's  face.  Her  composure 
was  once  more  intact  and  there  was  a  fine  little  tri 
umphant  smile  about  her  lips. 


106 "Q" 

"We  are  of  one  blood  —  thou  and  I,"  answered 
the  small  smile  of  Sydney  Grinscoombe. 

But  Q  could  have  no  knowledge  of  that  small  grim 
smile  of  hers;  as  he  sped  town  wards  through  the  night 
filled  with  the  deep  white  magic  of  a  full  summer 
moon  he  was  at  once  lashed  and  exultant.  For  all  his 
pain,  he  had  taken,  he  thought,  a  stronghold  and  even 
a  powerful  friend.  The  Sphinx  in  his  path  with  its 
stony,  inimical  idea  had  softened  into  flesh  and  blood. 
She  knew  of  his  clean  love  and  she  approved  it.  She 
had  chosen  him  to  be  Lelo's  defender  and  bid  his  suit 
Godspeed.  Her  influence  over  her  niece  Q  knew  to  be 
incalculable,  and  he  felt  half-certain  of  ultimate  vic 
tory  in  spite  of  a  burning  anguish  in  his  breast.  Out 
there,  somewhere  along  the  moonlit  roads,  Heloise  was 
speeding  beside  the  man  from  whom  it  had  become 
his  duty  to  protect  her.  And  the  man  was,  fantasti 
cally  enough,  the  very  "Ferdinand  kid"  that  had 
procured  him  the  one  great  humiliation  of  his  life. 
He  felt  now  not  the  slightest  desire  to  pass  on  the 
thrashing;  his  feeling  went  unfathomably  deeper  than 
any  such  childish  futility  of  revenge.  Ferdinand 
Fadden  —  he  kept  repeating  the  name  meaning- 
lessly,  then  was  struck  of  a  sudden  still  —  mind  and 
body,  yes,  and  beating  heart.  The  letter  F  —  Lelo's 
face  aglow,  her  lips  bent  to  cover  it  —  he  felt  their 
velvet  touch  again  on  his  intruding  hand.  He  went 
on  stumblingly,  his  eyes  blinded  by  fear. 


CHAPTER  X 

WANTED  —  A  LISTENER 

LONGMAN'S  School  Arithmetic  flew  across  Room  90, 
came  into  violent  contact  with  the  mirror  of  Q's 
dressing-table,  and  left  a  spidery  fracture  before  fall 
ing  to  the  floor.  There  followed  a  pencil,  a  ball  of 
yellow  paper,  and  after  these  came  Q.  Rumpled  and 
disheveled,  with  a  phosphorescent  eye  he  came,  out 
through  the  door  and  down  the  stairs  like  some  me 
teoric  example  of  natural  force,  across  the  lobby,  and, 
hatless,  hands  in  pockets,  down  the  hotel  steps  to  the 
pavement,  radiating  July  sun.  There,  for  an  instant, 
he  stood  as  though  the  force  had  momentarily  need  of 
direction,  and,  catching  sight  of  a  stray  jitney,  he 
made  a  gracefully  desperate  gesture  —  a  flinging  up 
of  his  right  arm.  It  was  as  though  a  rope  shot  out, 
sang  through  clear  air,  and  settled  itself  about  the 
neck  of  the  jitney-driver.  He  began  to  jerk  and  to 
push  with  his  feet.  The  motor  buzzed,  the  car 
backed,  and  turned  and  drifted  to  a  stop  in  front 
of  Q. 

Again  rapt  in  space-devouring  energy,  Q  threw 
himself  with  tigerish  suppleness  into  the  back  seat, 
stretched  out  his  legs,  subsided  on  his  spine,  seemed 
to  cast  down  reins  upon  a  pony's  neck. 

"Go  somewhere  like  hell,"  he  murmured  sweetly. 

The  man,  at  work  again  on  levers,  looked  back, 
smiled  with  the  superior  manner  of  all  mechanics,  and 


108 "Q" 

took  his  passenger  up  Main  Street  and  away  with 
growing  speed. 

Q  sat  slightly  swayed  and  shaken  by  motion,  the 
phosphorescent  eyes  fixed  on  -space.  His  lips  moved. 

"Invert  and  multiply,"  he  said  softly,  "invert  and 
multiply  —  oh,  damn! " 

Five  minutes  out  of  town,  he  climbed  suddenly 
around  to  the  front  seat  and  sat  down  beside  the 
driver. 

"Distract  my  mind  from  its  sufferin',"  he  said. 
"Learn  me  how  to  run  the  car." 

"What's  your  trouble?"  the  scornful  professor  of 
speed  demanded  with  a  certain  sympathy.  Nearly 
human  he  seemed  for  an  instant,  so  strong  was  the 
pressure  of  Q's  need. 

"My  trouble,  stranger,  is  something  you  outgrew 
about  ten  years  ago,  kind  of  shed  it  off  with  your 
short  pants.  Say,  I  'd  like  to  forget  it.  I  '11  give  you  all 
you  need  for  learnin'  me  to  run  this  car." 

Q  focused  his  powerful  attention  on  a  simulta 
neous  use  of  foot  and  hand,  eye  and  common  sense  — 
it  was  a  combination  of  energies  to  which  his  life  had 
very  excellently  trained  him;  the  mechanic  conde 
scended  to  applaud  his  maiden  efforts  and  they  trav 
eled  far  along  white,  dusty  roads,  over  which  the 
broad,  weary  foliage  of  July  drooped  lifelessly.  Q's 
self-respect,  badly  shaken  by  Mary's  stern,  unex 
plained —  to  her,  alas!  eternally  unexplainable  — 
command  to  "invert  and  multiply,"  gradually  re 
vived  itself;  hope  returned,  the  whole  large  arc  of  his 
ambition  renewed  itself  in  his  sky.  If  he  could  master 


Wanted  —  A  Listener  109 

the  intricacies  of  this  mysterious  machine,  surely  he 
was  man  enough  to  understand  Heloise,  even  if  frac 
tions  were  a  trifle  more  mysterious.  This  was  not  his 
conscious  reasoning,  but,  in  the  arduous  distress  of 
his  new  existence,  just  such  small  encouragements 
were  necessary  to  his  pride,  even  to  his  self-respect. 
Sometimes  the  sickness  of  his  discouragement  weak 
ened  the  very  fibers  of  his  will. 

After  two  hours  of  mechanical  absorption,  Q  looked 
less  meteoric  and  very  much  more  cheerful.  He  al 
lowed  the  mechanic,  now  a  friend,  to  recapture  the 
place  of  control  and  relaxed  beside  him  with  a  sigh  of 
accomplishment. 

"  Let 's  turn  her  up  toward  the  mountain  here.  Can 
she  climb?" 

"She  sure  can!"  Proudly  the  owner  of  a  Ford  jit 
ney,  so  illuminatingly  feminine  in  its  temperament, 
put  her  through  her  paces.  The  crazy  engine  took  the 
stony  lane  in  bounding  jerks,  energetic,  nervous,  ex 
citable,  missish,  then,  becoming  matronly,  hummed 
and  drew  itself  with  an  affectation  of  steadiness  along 
the  graded  ascent.  It  was  a  made  road,  but  it  had 
been  neglected.  It  led  at  last  to  an  inn  near  the  sum 
mit  of  the  hill  —  a  shabby,  dilapidated  inn  —  once 
painted  white  and  green,  now  a  dingy  gray,  shadowed 
by  cedar,  oak,  and  mountain  ash  looking  half-blind 
and  deaf  and  a  little  sly,  perhaps,  like  some  aged  gos 
sip  that  could  tell  things  if  it  would. 

"Say,"  Q  asked,  "can  a  man  get  a  drink  in  there?" 

"Sure  can." 

"Then  let's  drop  our  reins  and  go  in,  shall  we? 


110  "Q" 

Maybe  we  can  stop  for  supper  —  the  sun 's  gettin' 
down  and  we  can't  make  it  back  before  the  River 
Hotel  shuts  up  its  biscuit-shootin'." 

"All  right  with  me,"  the  mechanic  agreed  cheerily. 

So  they  came  into  Folly  Inn.  It  was  a  quaint 
place;  its  square  front  hall  received  them  into  deep 
dusk  —T  low-ceiled,  a  wooden  staircase  leading  up  to 
even  deeper  dusk  above,  a  shadowy  counter,  chintz- 
curtained  windows,  an  array  of  copper  and  brass  and 
old  pewter  —  a  fireplace  —  evidently  an  inn  that  had 
seen  better  days.  The  keeper  came  out  from  a  corner 
somewhere  to  do  what  he  could  to  get  them  up  a  sup 
per.  "The  old  big  dining-room  was  closed  for  lack 
of  custom,  but  there  was  li  'le  supper  room  —  more 
cheerful  —  that  parties  sometimes  reserved."  It  was 
empty  to-night  —  he  made  a  "specialty  of  fried 
chicken  and  waffles  and  all  fresh  vegetables  and  fruit 
in  season."  He  was  a  small,  dark,  wrinkled,  peer 
ing  man,  who  slipped  about  furniture  with  uncanny 
sidling  swiftness  like  a  crab.  He  led  them  to  a  small 
washroom  from  which  Q  first  emerged.  Over  in  a  far 
corner  of  the  large  dim  room  his  keen,  curious  eyes 
had  noticed  a  stooping,  bundled  figure  in  an  arm 
chair,  a  figure  that  was  incessantly  engaged  in  tiny, 
restless  movements  and  whisperings.  "My  old 
grandfather,"  said  the  man;  "near  a  hundred  he  is 
and  a  little  out  of  his  wits  —  nobody  listens  to  him  — 
he  talks  to  hisself  like  that  all  day  and  half  the  night. 
I  get  him  up  like  a  bundle  mornings,  and  set  him 
down  in  thet  chair  and  there  he  sets  and  chatters  to 
hisself  until  I  pick  him  up  and  put  him  to  bed  —  It 's 


Wanted  —  A  Listener  111 

near  his  bedtime  now."  Q  strolled  over  to  the  "bun 
dle"  and  received  a  surprisingly  intelligent  look  from 
eyes  embedded  in  myriad  wrinkles,  so  deep  and  nu 
merous  that  the  features  were  lost  entirely,  all  but 
these  little  searching  eyes.  The  chatter,  punctuated 
by  a  queer,  grieving,  half-chanted  "um-hum,"  went 
on  without  interruption,  not  stopping  even  though 
the  chatterer  acknowledged  Q's  presence  by  a  nod 
ding  of  its  head. 

—  fat  little  whiskery  fellow  he  was  —  um-hum  — 
wore  rings  and  rode  horseback  —  um-um  —  and 
did  n't  care  what  he  rode  —  seen  him  many 's  the 
time  a  gallopin'  down  the  road  fit  to  break  his  hunt 
er's  legs  —  and  they  tell  me  how  on  a  wager  he  rode 
through  the  river  tunnel  to  race  the  express  and  just 
missed  bein'  caught  —  that  was  afore  he  lost  his 
second  wife  —  used  to  bring  the  dressmaker  woman 
here  long  afore  he  got  his  freedom  to  marry  her  —  his 
third  wife  —  funny  how  a  little  whiskery  feller  like 
him  could  git  three  fine  young  women  to  tie  up  to  him 
—  those  day?  we'd  have  some  queer  parties  at  the 
inn  —  " 

"It  must 'have  been  a  regular  round-up  them  days," 
said  Q,  and  the  old  man  was  so  delighted  that  he 
straightened  up  and  smacked  with  his  toothless  lips, 
his  eyes  brightening  intensely  in  their  folds. 

"Ah,  sir,  you  say  so!  Many  the  stories  I  could  tell, 
but  who's  to  listen?  —  I  set  here  and  tell  'em  over  to 
myself  —  nobody  cares  now,  nobody  cares  now.  All 
the  old  life  of  Sluypenkill  dead  and  gone  —  um-um  — • 
motors  carry  folks  away  to  the  cities  —  no  parties  up 


112 "Q" 

here  now  —  except  once  in  a  hundred  months  when 
we  get  something  vulgar  —  but  I  can  remember 
things  —  about  the  old  families ;  There  was  skeletons 
that  went  stalking  about  our  rooms :  All  ghosts  now, 
sir.  You  look  like  a  gentleman  yourself,  but  you 
have  n't  got  the  twist  of  the  tongue  —  You  favor  old 
Mr.  DeLancey  —  he  was  a  fine  young  chap  and  his 
sister,  Miss  Susan,  pretty  and  sweet,  pretty  and  sweet, 
and  her  father  would  n't  see  her  again,  not  after  her 
marriage  —  Oh,  they  cared  for  their  names,  those 
days.  Um-hum.  Other  fathers  might  have  had  reason 
to—" 

"Don't  let  yourself  be  bored  by  him,  sir,"  sug 
gested  the  sidling  innkeeper,  drawing  near  and  not 
troubling  to  lower  his  voice  for  the  suggestion;  "he 
just  runs  on  about  the  old  days  —  half  of  it  he  makes 
up  himself,  I  think  —  I  '11  have  your  supper  ready  in 
about  ten  minutes.  The  other  gentleman  is  waiting 
for  you  — " 

"I'll  be  there  in  a  minute  — "  Q  was  really  about 
to  move  away  when  his  attention  was  arrested  by  a 
name  which  tumbled  out  of  the  old  man's  mouth  on 
a  sort  of  chuckle. 

"Dr.  Sales  —  um-hum  —  that  night  —  I  had  the 
neuralgia  —  O  Lordy,  what  a  night  —  not  a  wink  of 
sleep  for  poor  me  and  the  rain  slidin'  down  the  roof  — 
I  could  n't  bear  it,  I  just  felt  I  had  to  get  the  doctor  to 
give  me  something  at  half-past  two  or  maybe  three 
it  was,  and  I  wrapped  my  wife's  flannel  petticoat 
about  my  face  and  lighted  a  candle  to  find  my  way  to 
Dr.  Sales  —  he  was  good-natured,  yes,  he  was;  they 


Wanted  —  A  Listener  113 

talk  about  him  now,  but  in  those  days  when  he  had  n't 
no  practice  and  just  come  out  here  and  played  the 
piano  to  my  daughters  and  sang  —  well,  he  was  good- 
natured  and  that 's  all  I  ask  —  um-hum  —  you  don't 
get  folks  to  listen  to  an  old  man  now  —  but  I  was  n't 
so  old  then,  to  be  sure  —  If  it  had  n't  been  for  the 
neuralgia,  though,  I  'd  never  have  seen  the  poor  fright 
ened  thing  come  creeping  along  with  her  letter  and 
slipping  it  under  Dr.  Sales's  door  —  she  not  undressed 
at  that  time  of  the  morning  —  a  Grinscoombe,  if  you 
please,  crying  along  the  hall  and  shaking  and  looking 
about  her  like  a  scared  rabbit  —  me  hiding  against 
the  corner  there  upstairs  —  I  thought  it  was  some 
thing  queer  when  she  came  in  with  Mr.  Thayer  — 
not  the  present  one,  you  know  —  very  handsome 
gentleman,  very,  beautiful  big  eyes  —  slow-spoken  — 
always  spoke  low  to  the  ladies  and  kept  looking  into 
their  eyes  —  many  a  time  I  've  seen  him  —  but  she 
kept  herself  wrapped  up  in  a  veil  and  would  n't  come 
down  to  supper  —  he  looking  as  fierce  as  a  panther  — 
and  I  kept  wondering  what  he  was  up  to  with  a  tall, 
slim,  dark-haired  young  woman  when  I  knew  his  wife 

—  she  was  a  Van  Dusen  —  was  a  tiny  blonde,  but  I 
never  would  have  thought  Miss  Selda  Grinscoombe, 
if  it  had  n't  been  for  my  neuralgia  and  catching  her 
creeping  along  the  hall  with  a  letter  to  slip  under  Dr. 
Sales's  door  —  yes,  sir,  he  helped  her  to  get  away  that 
night  back  to  her  father  and  I  never  told  what  I  saw 

—  um-hum  —  innkeepers  and  priests  —  innkeepers 
and  priests:  But  now  nobody  will  listen  to  me  mum 
bling  and  whispering  on  account  of  my  teeth,  and  some- 


114 "Q" 

how  you  remind  me  of  the  young  gentlemen  that  used 
to  be  here  with  their  laughin'  and  their  drinkin'  and 
the  wrong  kind  of  women  and  the  right  kind  of 
women,  thinking,  poor  little  dears,  that  they  was  doing 
something  kind  of  bold  and  gay  —  like  Miss  Susan 
with  her  livery-stable  boy  or  little  Mrs.  Van  Dusen 
and  her  husband  and  her  husband's  cousin  from 
Boston—" 

Here  Q  moved  away. 

He  felt  guilty  and  bemused.  He  wondered  if  the 
old,  old  fellow  had  really  seen  anything  so  strange  as 
Miss  Selda  Grinscoombe  creeping  along  the  upper 
hall  of  this  inn  at  three  o'clock  of  a  rainy  night  so  long 
ago  —  creeping  and  shaking  and  crying  with  a  letter 
in  her  hand  —  It  probably  was  n't  his  Miss  Selda  — 
Q  had  a  swift  recurrent  mind  picture  of  her  cold  face, 
and  with  it  a  more  vivid  impression  of  that  secret 
waver,  that  controlled  uncertainty  that  hid  itself 
beneath  the  stone  and  iron  of  her  look.  It  was  not 
fair  to  the  woman's  pride  that  he  should  have  stum 
bled  upon  any  such  piteous  upheaval  of  her  youth. 
Perhaps  —  Q  ate  his  chicken  and  waffles  silently, 
throwing  out  a  humorous  observation  now  and  then 
to  keep  his  comrade  entertained  —  perhaps  the  hos 
pital  at  the  Mills  had  suffered  from  mismanagement, 
perhaps  Dr.  Sales's  ignorance  had  been  allowed  dis 
astrous  protection  because  of  Miss  Grinscoombe's 
control  of  the  Mills,  of  the  hospital,  of  all  Sluypen- 
kill.  Q's  patient  investigation,  dictated  by  the  tireless 
wolfishness  of  his  instantaneous  hatred  of  William 
Sales,  had  brought  him  again  and  again  face  to  face 


Wanted  —  A  Listener  115 

with  the  revelation  that  Sluypenkill  lay  in  the  hollow 
of  this  gray-faced  woman's  narrow  hands.  A  man 
under  her  protection  could  afford  laziness,  could  af 
ford  selfishness,  could  afford  his  pet  vices.  But  it 
was  n't  exactly  fair  to  adopt  this  information  —  and 
the  old  man  was  scarcely  to  be  trusted  —  had  n't  his 
son  accused  him  of  making  up  tales  for  his  own  amuse 
ment?  Suddenly  Q,  thinking  of  the  "old  lady"  and 
her  "poor  boy,"  laughed  softly  and  maliciously  over 
his  coffee-cup. 

"What  you  got  now?"  demanded  the  mechanic, 
ready  for  anything. 

"I  got  queer  tracks  —  looks  like  a  old  lady's  walk 
ing  backward  down  a  hill,"  he  said.  "What's  the 
ammunition  for  that  —  kind  of  game  —  toast  and 
tea  — ?  Or  fried  lady-fingers?" 

"The  whiskey  you've  taken  oughtn't  have  done 
that  to  you,"  said  the  mechanic.  "You  Western  fel 
lows  don't  hold  your  drink." 


CHAPTER  XI 

LAYER  CAKE 

"I  HAVE  my  faults,"  said  Mrs.  Stopper,  stroking 
down  the  brown-and-white  foulard  over  her  promi 
nent  bust,  upon  which  she  habitually  seemed  to  sus 
pect  the  persistence  of  a  breakfast  crumb;  "nobody 
knows  that  better  than  myself,  but  I  am  not  a  gossip. 
I  can't  abide  gossip.  Indeed,  I  said  to  Mrs.  Eggles 
only  yesterday  when  we  were  discussing  the  dreadful 
trouble  that  has  come  upon  poor  Mrs.  Huggs  like  a 
judgment  from  Heaven,  every  one  having  expected  a 
catastrophe  since  she  wTas  blind  long  enough  to  cul 
tivate  the  acquaintance  of  the  Johnson  woman,  know 
ing  as  she  must  have  known  that  butter  on  a  hot  day 
is  no  softer  than  that  husband  of  hers,  and  I've  al 
ways  said  that  if  a  woman  can't  keep  her  husband  she 
deserves  to  lose  him;  meat  is  too  strong  food  for  a 
weak  stomach  and  a  wife  should  temper  the  wind  to 
a  shorn  lamb!" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Q.  T.  Kinwydden. 

He  was  a  figure  of  discretion,  seated  in  Mrs.  Stop 
per's  parlor,  sipping  Mrs.  Stopper's  tea.  The  room 
was  arranged  for  a  card  party  which  preceded  a  read 
ing  from  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Mrs.  Stopper  being  chair 
man  of  a  Scott  Club.  The  members  were  due  at  four- 
thirty  and  it  was  now  four  o'clock.  Q,  having  found 
wandering  and  returned  a  yellow  cat,  named  Sweetie, 
very  dear  to  Mrs.  Stopper's  heart,  was  being  rewarded 
by  refreshments  and  moral  observations. 


Layer  Cake  117 


"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said. 

"So  I  said  to  her,  *  Gossip  is  one  of  the  seven  deadly 
sins'  —  not  that  I  meant  to  be  irreverent,  you  under 
stand,  Mr.  Kinwydden,  because  I  was  quite  in  earnest, 
and  Mrs.  Huggs  was  the  first  to  cast  a  stone  when 
Charles  B.  Starraway's  daughter  —  the  dry-goods 
store  on  the  corner,  you  know,  and  such  a  nice  man, 
though  he  does  n't  quite  belong,  but  he  has  such  a 
nice  Van  Dyke  beard,  which  gives  elegance,  I  always 
think,  to  a  man's  appearance,  no  matter  what  his 
figure  —  she  left  for  the  movies  and  was  seen  with 
practically  nothing  on,  in  a  production  entitled  'He 
Killed  the  Thing  He  Loved,'  and  her  poor  mother 
being  in  the  audience  and  not  prepared  for  seeing 
Susy  like  that,  in  public,  fainted  dead  away  —  and 
how  is  your  wrist  now,  Mr.  Kinwydden?  —  out  of 
the  sling,  I  see." 

"Just  fine,  thank  you." 

"Dr.  Sales  sewed  it  up  for  you,  I  suppose.  Well, 
he's  very  good,  I  dare  say,  and  a  pleasant-spoken 
gentleman  enough,  and  the  best  people  call  him  in, 
and  I  know  that  Miss  Grinscoombe  won't  have  any 
other  medical  man,  not  if  she  was  on  her  death-bed, 
but  I  can't  help  it,  I  did  like  Dr.  Ellison.  It  seemed 
like  he  did  more  for  my  indigestion  than  Dr.  Sales. 
And  I  never  could  believe  what  they  told  of  him  and 
the  poor  young  man  having  to  leave  Sluypenkill  be 
cause  of  it  and  he  in  love  with  dear  Mary  Grins 
coombe,  though  I  don't  think  she'd  have  had  him, 
though  you  never  can  tell,  and  Miss  Grinscoombe  not 
countenancing  him  on  the  hospital  staff  and  driving 


118 "Q" 

around  in  person  to  his  patients,  breaking  up  his  prac 
tice  with  her  own  hands,  you  might  say!  Loyalty  to 
your  friends  is  one  thing  and  Dr.  Sales  has  been  her 
friend,  no  doubt  —  they  do  say  there  was  a  time 
when,  had  n't  it  been  for  the  pride  of  old  Mr.  Grins- 
coombe,  which  —  even  when  you  consider  all  he  had 
to  be  proud  of,  and  I  hope  it's  far  from  me  not  to 
admit  a  just  superiority  —  was  something  sinful  — 
now,  where  was  I,  Mr.  Kinwydden?" 

"I'm  afraid,  ma'am,  I'm  off  the  trail.  You  was 
speakin'  about  doc's  bein'  a  friend  to  Miss  Grins- 
coombe,  was  n't  you?" 

"I  presume  likely.  Had  n't  it  been  for  Mr.  Grins- 
coombe's  pride,  doctor  might  have  been  more  to  Miss 
Selda  than  a  friend.  He  looked  high  in  his  love  for  a 
widower,  and,  when  he  first  came,  a  practitioner  in  a 
very  small  way,  for  it  was  n't  until  the  Manor  took 
him  up  that  his  practice  began  to  amount  to  anything 
—  and  I  hear  now  that  it  ain't  safe  for  him  to  go 
among  the  mill-hands  —  all  of  which  is  something 
before  my  day;  I  was  about  eighteen  when  doctor 
first  came  to  the  place  with  his  little  boy  and,  any 
way,  whatever  his  own  ambitions  may  have  been, 
and  we  can't  be  sure,  for  the  secrets  of  his  heart  are 
unknown,  we  are  all  purfickly  sure  he  wanted  Laurie 
to  match  off  with  Miss  Heloise  —  that  was  purfickly 
apparent  to  every  layer  of  Sluypenkill  society.  And 
Laurie  and  Miss  Heloise  were  a  pretty  pair  of  friends, 
too,  and  quite  intimate.  Sluypenkill  society  is  like 
a  layer  cake,  don't  you  think,  Mr.  Kinwydden?  As 
Mary  herself  says  —  her  name  for  it,  my  dear  — 
*  Grinscoombery*  on  top  — " 


Layer  Cake  119 


Q  was  moved  to  laughter.  "That's  a  mighty  fittin' 
word  for  it,  Mrs.  Stopper.  '  Grinscoombery '  —  it 's 
something  I  've  been  seekin'  for — '  Grinscoombery.' " 

Mrs.  Stopper's  little  round  face  of  a  gossip  shone 
with  pleasure. 

"  Grinscoombery 's  the  icing,"  she  went  on,  moved 
by  applause  to  an  elaboration  of  her  figure,  "and 
then  comes  we  townspeople,  good  solid  cake,  and 
below  us  is  a  little  fillin'  in  the  shape  of  newcomers 
not  sufficiently  recognized,  then  some  more  solid 
stuff,  small  shopkeepers  and  what  not,  so  on  down  to 
the  factory  and  domestic  classes  —  and  they  do  say 
that  the  factory  — " 

"It's  sure  mixin'  to  me,"  Q  admitted,  "keeps  me 
millin'  'round." 

"Yes,"  chuckled  Mrs.  Stopper,  "but  you've  come 
along  with  a  knife  and  cut  a  slice  clean  through  from 
icing  to  plate.  Why,  you  've  got  friends  clear  down  to 
the  little  yellow  curs  that  hang  around  the  saloon  on 
the  corner.  I  saw  you  one  afternoon,  taking  one  of 
the  hotel  waitresses  —  Sophie  —  to  a  movie  matinee! 
I  call  that  democracy.  But  it  won't  do  you  any  good 
at  the  Manor,  young  man,  take  my  word  for  that. 
They  won't  understand  it  —  not  Miss  Grinscoombe 
—  at  all.  You  can't  go  riding  with  Miss  Heloise  one 
day  and  calling  on  me  the  next  and  taking  a  waitress 
to  the  movies  on  the  third,  and  keep  your  social  foot 
ing  in  Sluypenkill . " 

"When  are  you  agoin'  to  show  me  the  door, 
ma'am?"  asked  Q,  standing  up  and  smiling  at  his 
hostess. 


120  "Q" 

"Well,  you  look  out!  What  Grinscoombe  Manor 
says,  goes.  We  townspeople  don't  run  against  Miss 
Grinscoombe's  decision,  generally  speaking." 

"You  got  me  plumb  scairt,  ma'am!" 

"Yes  —  you'd  better  be!  And  how  goes  the  edu 
cation?" 

"Still  uphill  and  down  timber  and  slide  rock — " 

"Oh,  must  you  be  going  now?" 

"I  reckon  I  must."  Q's  eyes  twinkled.  "I  got  a 
date  with  Sophie." 

Mrs.  Stopper's  face  showed  genuine  concern.  She 
came  close  to  her  tall  visitor  and  put  a  plump  hand  on 
his  arm.  "Now,  Mr.  Kinwydden,  please  don't  be 
foolish.  Eastern  ways  are  n't  Western  ways,  as  no 
body  knows  better  than  myself,  having  an  only  daugh 
ter  married  and  living  in  the  Dakotas,  a  wild  prairie 
place  where  she  eats  with  the  hired  men,  and  as  far  as 
I  can  make  out,  the  poor  child  cooks  for  them,  and 
brought  up  delicate,  as  I  took  pains  to  teach  her  the 
pianoforte  and  a  real  clever  hand  at  bridge  she  was, 
too.  Sophie  has  done  enough  mischief  already,  as 
doctor  would  be  the  first  to  tell  you.  Ah,  well!  I  '11  not 
tell  you  the  story,  for  I  can't  give  it  at  first  hand  and 
I'm  not  the  one  to  gossip,  but  I  wish  you  well,  Mr. 
Kinwydden,  as  all  of  us  do  in  Sluypenkill,  and  thank 
you  kindly  for  bringin'  home  Sweetie,  he  gives  me 
more  trouble  than  a  babe  —  that  animal  —  so  roving 
in  his  disposition  —  say,  if  I  dared,  I  'd  christen  him 
-Mr.  Huggs!" 

And  so  on,  down  the  hall  and  out  of  the  door  and 
from  the  porch  until,  having  passed  through  the  gate, 


Layer  Cake 


Q  passed  out  of  the  range  of  the  plump  voice,  savor 
ing  its  own  sound  on  the  agile  tongue. 

Q  walked  in  thought,  amused  and  quizzical.  He 
was  revolving  one  of  his  aphorisms,  "Talkin'  makes 
things  happen  just  as  sure  as  happenings  makes  folks 
talk.  It's  a  plumb  tangle."  He  further  elucidated  to 
himself:  "Seems  like  lives  and  feelin's  gets  tied  up 
together  when  they  live  too  clost.  Folks  is  like  bosses 
in  a  crowded  corral,  they  fair  trample  on  each  other. 
When  you  try  to  cut  one  out,  if  you  ain't  careful, 
somebody's  likely  to  get  hurted  pretty  bad." 

He  went  thoughtfully  along  the  little  maple-bor 
dered  street  and  turned  down  Main  Street  to  the 
hotel,  where  he  passed  through  a  vacant,  shaded 
dining-room,  in  which  the  usual  intense  activity  of 
fly-life  was  subdued  to  a  dim,  hazy  murmur,  through 
swinging  doors  into  the  pantry.  It  was  a  bare,  narrow 
room  and  at  its  far  end,  near  the  single  window,  stood 
Sophie,  her  hat  hanging  in  her  hand,  her  forehead 
pressed  against  the  pane.  He  stood  for  a  minute  look 
ing  at  her,  and  the  expression  of  his  eyes  was  less 
guarded  than  usual,  and  more  masterful.  With  So 
phie,  as  with  few  people  in  this  Eastern  world,  he  felt 
entirely  self-assured  and  dominant.  She  was,  like 
himself,  unlettered,  wild  and  direct.  Her  beauty  was 
in  all  its  points  passionate  and  primitive  —  the  wild 
and  startled  eyes,  the  quick,  soft  motions  of  her  lips, 
her  changeful  color,  the  way  she  held  her  ripe  and  sup 
ple  body.  Bone  by  bone  she  was  one  of  the  women  he 
knew.  She  was  ready  for  the  flight  that  begs  pursuit, 
the  fiery  struggle  that  demands  capture.  She  waa 


Q 


ignorant,  lowly,  unhappy,  rebellious.  His  nerves 
seemed  to  rest  in  the  relaxation  of  a  certain  limited 
but  fundamental  congeniality. 

"Hullo,"  said  Q.  "Ain't  you  ready  for  that  sody- 
water  yet?" 

She  turned  about,  ducked  her  head,  put  on  her  hat, 
and  moved,  the  brim  low  over  face,  in  silence  toward 
him. 

He  bent  to  look  closely  at  her  and  straightened. 
"  Say,  you  Sophie  gel,  what  's  wrong?  You  been  cryin* 
your  eyes  out!" 

At  that  she  stood  still,  put  her  hands  over  her  face, 
and  sobbed  childishly. 

"It  —  it  is  n't  anything  I  can  tell  you  about,  sir." 

"Quit  callin'  me  'sir.'  I've  spoken  to  you  about 
that  quite  a  lot  now.  You,  gel,  who's  been  treatin' 
you  bad?  I'll  get  him,  savvy?  Come  along  to  the 
sody-place  and  we'll  mosy  back  into  the  ice-cream 
parlor  and  get  a  table  to  ourselves.  You're  plumb 
wore  out  dish-  wrangling." 

In  the  ice-cream  parlor  they  found  a  fan-stirred 
emptiness.  He  leaned  across  the  little  table  and 
touched  her  hand.  She  lifted  her  startled  eyes,  the 
eyes  of  a  wild  bird,  brilliantly  black  and  darting. 

"Q,"  she  wailed  softly,  "it's  been  going  on  so  long. 
I'm  all  wore  out  with  it." 

"Is  that  so?"  It  was  so  sympathetic  a  murmur, 
and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  were  so  compelling  in  his 
thin  and  handsome  face,  that  her  sorrow  began  to 
tumble  out  of  her. 

"I  can't  abide  the  man,"  she  said,  "but  Poppa  and 


Layer  Cake  123 


he  are  always  af tern  me  an'  I  'm  that  tired  and  heart 
sick  that  I  'm  about  ready  to  give  in.  If  he  could  have 
had  me  the  wrong  way,  he'd  have  left  off  plaguing  me 
long  ago.  For  half  a  season  here  I  had  to  lock  my  door 
against  him  night  after  night,  and  I  think  it 's  a  shame 

—  that  I  do  —  for  Poppa  to  stand  by  and  encourage 
him  now  to  get  me  for  his  wife,  Poppa  knowing  what 
I  suffered  from  him  before  his  own  wife  died." 

"Why,  the  old  coyote,"  said  Q,  his  mind  conjuring 
up  the  pimpled  and  perspiring  face  of  the  head  waiter 
whom  he  knew  to  be  the  father  of  Sophie. 

"And  he  is  an  important  gentleman  and  has  means, 
and  if  he  sells  out,  he'll  be  downright  wealthy,  so 
Poppa  thinks  it's  a  fine  match  for  me,  and  I  suppose 
it  is." 

"Say,  don't  you  tie  up  to  any  feller  less'n  a  Con 
gressman,  Sophie,  don't  you.  Let  your  Pa  rear.  He 
can't  hurt  you  —  a  little  fat  feller  like  him! " 

Sophie  unwillingly  smiled.  "I'm  real  afraid  of 
Poppa,"  she  said,  "and  when  he  sells  out  — " 

"What's  he  agoin'  to  sell  out  of,  anyways?" 

"Why,  the  hotel!" 

"You  don't  say!  Why,  the  gol-derned  old  son  of  — 
the  gol-derned  old  fool!  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me 
that  Benton,  the  feller  that  looks  like  a  long  drink  of 
warm  milk,  is  plottin'  to  make  you  his  bride!  — Miss 
Mariana's  Pa?  Say,  ain't  he  the  lively  old  outlaw! 
Who's  agoin'  to  buy  him  out?" 

"I  don't  know.  He's  had  a  bid  from  some  New 
York  party,  through  his  agent,  some  man  named 
Goldman,  I  think  —  at  least  that 's  the  agent's  name 

—  I'm  not  sure." 


124 "Q" 

"Some  feller  really  wants  to  own  the  River  Hotel! 
Well,  is  that  the  truth!  The  world  is  sure  full  of 
quaint  fancies.  Sell  out  his  little  old  hotel  and  marry 
you  —  I  'd  never  hev  guessed  it  from  lookin'  at  him 
and  settlin'  up  his  charges.  Does  Bill  go  with  the 
buzz-box?" 

Sophie  was  back  in  the  cloud  of  her  trouble  and 
would  no  longer  smile. 

"I've  always  held  myself  high,"  she  said,  "I  have 
that.  And  never  kept  company  with  any  of  the  town 
boys,  not  even  carried  on  with  the  drummers,  and 
you  know  they're  forever  ogling  and  lovemaking.  I 
—  I  Ve  always  kind  of  hoped  —  "  she  stopped  with  a 
wavering  break  in  her  voice. 

"Sure,"  said  Q.  "Sure,  you  Ve  hoped  for  a  regular 
feller." 

"Yes  —  and  when  you've  known  one!"  Beneath 
the  lowered  inky  lashes,  her  cheeks  burned  and 
quivered;  her  ripe  lips  were  pulled  straight  by  pain. 

"You  can't  quit  thinkin'  of  him  —  I  reckon  that's 
the  truth,  gel." 

"And  the  more  I  try  to  make  myself  good  enough 
for  him,"  the  girl  went  on,  moving  with  a  beautiful 
difficulty  her  pain-stretched  lips,  "studying  and  read 
ing  and  practicing  my  writing  so's  he  won't  be 
ashamed  of  my  letters  —  " 

Poor  Q  was  smitten  by  a  likeness  and  the  color  rose 
slowly  to  his  face. 

"  —  Why,  the  more  I  can't  abide  the  other  fellows 
that  I  could  get  for  the  smiling  at  them.  There's  no 
use  in  talking  to  Poppa  about  Laurie,  for  he  goes 


Layer  Cake  125 


right  up  in  the  air  and,  anyway,  I  promised  Dr. 
Sales  —  " 

"Dr.  Sales?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Laurie  is  Dr.  Sales's  son.  Oh,  it  hap 
pened  once  when  Dr.  Sales  closed  his  house  for  the 
summer  and  he  sent  Laurie  to  stop  at  the  hotel  for 
his  vacation.  That's  when  it  started.  There  never 
was  such  a  sweet  kid,  honest,  Mr.  Q,  as  that  Laurie! " 
Her  face  melted  to  the  loveliness  of  memory.  "Say, 
that  summer  seems  a  hundred  years  ago.  The  good 
times  we  had!  I  just  laughed  at  Mr.  Benton  those 
days,  even  though  I  had  to  lock  my  door  to  him.  And 
gee!  he  was  fierce  with  jealousy.  Afterwards,  though, 
in  the  fall,  when  Dr.  Sales  came  home,  it  was  awful ! 
I'll  never  forget  it.  Dr.  Sales  came  back  and  found 
out  about  Laurie  and  me.  You  can't  blame  him  for 
taking  on  about  it,  because  he  wanted  Laurie  to  har 
ness  up  to  Miss  Heloise  Grinscoombe —  think  of 
that!  —  and  then  to  find  him  clean  out  of  his  head 
over  me  —  well,  naturally  it  was  hard  and  put  him 
back  a  whole  lot.  I  was  kind  of  sorry  for  him,  myself, 
and  I  guess  he  was  fond  of  Laurie  like  Laurie  was  fond 
of  him.  But,  after  he  got  his  way  with  Laurie,  I 
could  n't  feel  for  him;  he  just  worried  the  soul  out 
of  the  boy  and  sent  him  away,  and  —  and — "  the 
darting,  startled  eyes  widened  and  fixed.  There  was 
a  long  silence. 

"But  he  writes  to  you,  ma'am?" 

She  nodded.  "Sometimes,  yes.  But  not  for  a  long 
time  now.  And  his  letters  have  gotten  different,  kind 
of  —  colder  like  —  I  guess"  —  the  torturing  thought 


126 "Q" 

worked  out  of  her  as  a  splinter  works  from  a  wound 
—  "I  guess,  by  now,  he's  got  another  girl." 

"Where  is  this  Laurie  boy?"  asked  Q. 

"In  a  place  called  West  Lemmon,  not  so  far  away. 
He's  started  in  practice  there  and  I  guess  he's  doing 
fine.  He  is  awfully  smart  and  taking  and  a  good- 
looker." 

"What  he  needs,"  muttered  Q,  "is  one  of  them 
long  stiff  bones  that  goes  down  the  middle  of  the 
back." 

"No,"  Sophie  sighed,  "he  needs  —  just  —  to  see 
me.  But  I  promised  —  * 

Her  voice  trailed  oft  into  a, silence  which  lasted 
them  through  the  eating  of  their  ice-cream  and  a 
sober  walk  back  to  the  hotel. 

Sophie  returned  to  the  work  and  the  bother  of  her 
daily  life,  with  its  thundery,  threatening  shadows^ 
and  Q  betook  himself  to  a  large  leather  chair  in  a  cor 
ner  of  the  lobby,  where  he  smoked  a  vast  number  of 
cigarettes  and  stared  at  Mr.  Benton  behind  the 
wires  of  his  little  cage  until  that  gentleman  became  so 
nervously  self-conscious  that  he  was  stricken  with  an 
incessant  tickling  of  the  throat. 


CHAPTER  XII 

NEW  WINE  IN  OLD  BOTTLES 

"BEFORE  we  begin  on  lessons,"  said  Q,  "I've  got  to 
ask  you  to  help  me  out  with  a  letter  I  've  wrote." 

His  "  schoolma'am  "  shook  her  head  at  him.  " '  I  Ve 
wrote!' Q?" 

Q  gazed  at  her  with  the  intent  eyes  of  a  searcher  of 
dictionary  pages  and  at  last  produced  the  participle. 

"  I ' ve  wri  tten,  ma'am.  Don't  it  sound  dressy  that- 
away!" 

She  sighed  and  held  out  her  hand  across  the  tables 
and  he,  standing  opposite,  fingered  his  paper  for  an 
instant  before  relinquishing  it.  "Why  did  you  sigh, 
then,  Miss  Mary?"  he  asked  her. 

"Because,  Q,  I  don't  think  you  try  very  hard  to 
speak  good  English,  and  that  is  really  the  most  im 
portant  part  of  all  your  education." 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  know  it  is,  but  it's  got  to  come 
gradual,  else  I'll  be  talkin'  like  a  kind  of  parrot  in  a 
high  hat  —  I  hev  thought  about  that  quite  a  lot,  and 
it  kind  of  seemed  to  me  that  until  I  had  got  the  sound 
of  talkin'  right  in  my  head,  it  would  be  akkard  like 
for  me  to  try  to  talk  any  different  than  I  was  raised  to 
talk." 

"You  certainly  think  straight,  Q  —  no  matter  how 
you  talk!  I  believe  you're  right:  Let  me  see  your 
letter." 

She  brightened  as  she  read  it,  for,  however  rebel- 


128 "Q" 

lious  his  tongue,  his  pen  had  been  surprisingly  well 
mastered.  The  sheet  was  covered  with  even  lines  of 
a  clear,  strong  writing,  and  even  the  spelling  was  no 
disgrace  to  her. 

DEAR  SIR, 

I  have  heard  from  a  friend  of  your  skill  as  a  doc  and  I  'd 
like  it  if  you  'd  look  after  a  wound  that  has  been  troubling 
me  some  lately.  It  don't  seem  to  heal  right  and  I  need  the 
use  of  my  wrist.  I  am  at  the  River  Hotel  and  will  pay  you 
for  coming  to  give  me  a  look-over.  Thursday  would  suit  me 
fine  at  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  if  you  can  make 
it.  Kindly  telephone  me  before  nine  in  the  morning  if  1 
would  expect  you. 

Q.  T.  KlNWTDDEN 

Mary,  puzzled,  looked  up  with  her  arch  and  wistful 
eyes. 

"But,  Q —  does  your  wrist  still  bother  you?  I 
thought  it  was  quite  well." 

"I  hev  decided  to  give  it  a  set-back,"  he  answered 
gravely. 

"What  do  you  mean?  If  there's  really  something 
wrong  —  why  not  call  in  Dr.  Sales?  Why  have  you 
this  prejudice  against  him?  I've  known  him  all  my 
life  —  nearly  —  and  he  has  been  the  best  and  kindest 
friend  to  me.  Who  is  this  other  doctor  and  where  did 
you  hear  of  him?" 

Q  was  folding  his  letter  and  through  the  intense 
gravity  of  his  face  a  little  flea  of  some  different  ex 
pression  skipped  in  and  out. 

"You're  up  to  some  sort  of  deviltry,"  said  Mary. 

"Ain't  it  about  time?"  he  demanded. 

"Where  is  your  envelope?  Are  you  going  to  ad 
dress  it?" 


New  Wine  in  Old  Bottles  129 

"My,"  said  Q  impersonally,  "ain't  cows  and 
women  inquirin'  critters!  I've  seed  half  a  herd  move 
acrost  a  plain  to  look  in  at  a  hat  some  lady  dude  let 
fall  along  a  trail." 

"Don't  be  nasty.  I  don't  care  in  the  least  about 
your  doctor,  but  it  hurts  my  feelings  that  you  don't 
trust  Dr.  Sales.  You  were  dreadfully  rude  to  him 
about  the  hospital  the  day  you  were  hurt.  You  must 
not  be  ready  to  believe  spiteful  gossip.  I  know  that 
there  has  been  a  great  deal  of  talk  against  Dr.  Sales 
—  even  that  a  lawsuit  was  brought  against  him  — • 
Miss  Grinscoombe  had  her  lawyer  from  New  York 
and  Dr.  Sales  was  completely  exonerated." 

"Yes,  ma'am.  How  do  you  spell  Laurie? 

Mary  started  and  her  face  changed  from  mildly « 
amused  annoyance  into  the  most  concerned  interest. 

"L-a-u-r-i-e,"  she  spelled,  and  watched  him  with 
an  anxious  look. 

Dr.  Laurie  Sales, 
West  Lemmon, 
N.J. 

wrote  the  careful  pen  in  the  strong  lean  fingers. 

"  Oh,  Q!  You  don't  —  you  can't  know  what  you  're 
doing." 

He  took  out  a  stamp,  put  it  in  place,  and  slipped 
the  letter  into  his  pocket. 

"Now,  I'm  all  ready  for  lessons,  ma'am." 

But  her  face  was  not  ready  for  schoolma'am  im« 
personalities;  it  was  all  one  flushed  question. 


130 "Q" 

"Q,  Q,  what  are  you  up  to?  But  it  is  n't  like  you  to 
mix  up  in  things  —  to  —  to  meddle." 

"I'm  beginning  to  think  that  I'm  a  regular  old 
maid,"  said  Q.  "It's  town  life  that  does  it,  and 
hearin'  so  much  talk  from  women-folks." 

"You  are  sending  for  Laurie  Sales!"  cried  Mary 
breathlessly;  "and  somehow  you  know  that  the  River 
Hotel  is  just  the  most  fatal  spot  in  the  world  for 
Laurie.  Look  out,  Q!  You  don't  want  to  break  his 
father's  heart!" 

"I'd  not  be  carin',"  he  announced  briefly. 

"You're  an  unreasonable  savage!" 

Then  with  sternness  she  leaned  over,  pointing  her 
finger  at  him,  "You  must  listen  to  me,  Q,  and  you 
must  follow  my  advice.  I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about.  There  are  excellent  reasons  why  Laurie  should 
not  be  brought  to  the  River  Hotel  on  any  pretext 
whatever." 

"No,  ma'am.  There  is  just  one  reason  why  he 
should  be  brought  there  —  and  that's  —  Sophie! " 

"Ah!  So  you  do  know!" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Q,  you  are  a  silly  sentimentalist!" 

"Well,  ma'am,  that  sounds  like  bad  talk,  but  you 
don't  scare  me  any ! " 

"Because  a  pretty  little  waitress  —  " 

"She  tops  you  by  about  two  heads  —  that  Sophie 
gel/' 

Mary  flushed.  "I  —  I  —  you  make  me  feel  that 
I've  been  insufferably  condescending." 

"I  never  use  rough  talk  to  a  lady.    Likely  you 


New  Wine  in  Old  Bottles 131 

called  her  *  little'  because  you  have  forgot  what  a 
big  classy  woman  she  is." 

"Sophie  must  be  trying  to  get  hold  of  Laurie,  and 
she's  using  you  to  decoy  him  to  the  hotel." 

"No,  ma'am,  that  ain't  the  truth,  but  even  if  it 
was,  why  should  n't  the  gel  try  to  keep  a  holt  on  the 
feller  she  loves?" 

"But,  Q  —   Oh,  you  are  a  sentimentalist." 

"That's  twict  you've  spurred  me  in  the  same 
place." 

"You  must  realize  that  Sophie  is  not  the  wife  for 
Laurie  Sales.  He  is  a  gentleman,  well-born,  well- 
bred,  well-educated.  She  is  a  servant-girl,  unedu 
cated,  socially  his  inferior.  I  know  she  is  a  beauty 
and  probably  a  very  nice  girl  and  would  make  some 
nice  man  happy,  but  —  " 

"Ain't  Laurie  a  nice  man?"  asked  Q. 

In  her  excitement,  her  half -mechanical  delivery  of 
one  of  the  dogmas  of  her  father's  class,  Mary  did  not 
notice  that  the  strained  look  had  fallen  about  Q's 
lips. 

"Yes,  yes.  He's  a  charming  boy,  clever,  good- 
looking,  bound  to  succeed,  to  go  very  far.  He  has 
shown  great  good  sense  and  courage.  He  has  made  a 
splendid  start.  It  would  be  wicked,  cruel,  to  drag 
him  back  to  the  wretchedness  of  that  affair.  It  al 
most  broke  his  father's  heart!" 

"And  what  about  the  Sophie  gel's  heart,  ma'am?" 

Mary  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room. 

"I  am  sorry  for  her.  And  I  do  blame  Laurie.  But 
she  is  young.  And  she  must  see,  herself,  that  a  mar- 


132 "Q" 

riage  between  her  and  Laurie  would  mean  unhappi- 
ness  for  both  of  them.  Three  years  ago,  she  acted 
splendidly." 

"But,  Miss  Grinscoombe,  and  you  must  please  ex 
cuse  me  —  but  I  am  plumb  confused  —  did  n't  your 
Pa  marry  a  girl  - 

Mary's  face  flamed  and  her  eyes  filled.  "Yes," 
she  said  shortly,  "he  did."  She  stood  for  a  minute 
stock-still  in  the  middle  of  the  little  room  staring  at 
Q  through  the  quick,  angry  tears.  "  And  —  in  a  sense 

—  it  ruined  his  life  —  but  it  was  a  matter  of  his 
honor.   Mother  was  a  very  wonderful  woman  —  and 

—  and  —  oh,  Q,  how  could  you  bring  that  up?  "  She 
turned  away  and  stood  at  one  of  the  windows,  her 
hands  clenched  at  her  sides. 

"I 'm  ashamed  of  myself  clear  through,  Miss  Mary, 
but  I  sure  don't  savvy.  It  seems  to  me  a  man  ain't 
worth  his  grub-stake  if  he  can't  choose  his  woman  for 
himself  and  stick  by  his  choice.  And,  ma'am" 
something  in  his  voice  made  her  turn  quickly  to  look 
at  him  —  "y°u  told  me  once,  yourself,  that  edication 
and  such  things  had  n't  ought  to  count,  that  lovin' 
was  a  man  and  woman  matter." 

There  followed  a  stricken  sort  of  silence.  Mary 
stood  with  her  back  to  the  window  and  her  eyes  on 
the  floor.  Her  hands  were  twisting  together  behind 
her  back.  Her  heart  seemed  to  be  suffering  a  punish 
ment  of  muffled  blows. 

"So  you  don't  want  me  to  send  that  letter  to  Dr. 
Laurie,"  Q  said  in  his  soft,  even  voice.  "You  don't 
want  me  to  give  Sophie  her  chanct  for  happiness. 


New  Wine  in  Old  Bottles 133 

Likely  you  don't  know  what  the  gel's  been  goin' 
through.  It  would  take  a  heap  of  lovin'  to  make  up 
to  her  what  she  has  been  put  through  since  her  Lau 
rie  feller  quit." 

"But,  Q,"  Mary  faltered,  making  a  profile  of  her 
self  against  the  sunny  window  so  that  the  fire  of  Au 
gust  shone  about  her  curls,  "there  might  be  great 
danger  to  her  in  bringing  Laurie  back.  He  is  several 
years  older  now,  he  is  a  man,  and  he  will  be  harder 
and  perhaps  less  chivalrous.  Maybe  he  still  has  this 
feeling  for  her  —  I  don't  know  —  but  I  do  know  he 
has  a  profession  and  a  practice  and  he  is  ambitious  in 
a  place  particularly  sensitive  to  birth  —  is  n't  that  a 
pretty  dangerous  combination  for  Sophie?  " 

"I  can  see  the  truth  of  that,"  Q  admitted,  "but  if 
this  feller  is  as  no-account  as  all  that  comes  to,  then 
Sophie  will  turn  against  him  pronto.  She  has  some 
horse-sense  and  likely  it  would  cure  her  if  he  tried 
any  trifiin'  of  that  nature.  Sophie  holds  herself 
high." 

"And  you  are  willing  to  take  this  responsibility  on 
your  shoulders?  Of  bringing  these  two  people  to 
gether?" 

"You  don't  know  what  the  gel  is  up  against." 

Mary  came  back  slowly  to  her  chair  and  rested  her 
hand  on  its  back.  All  the  color  of  excitement  and  an 
ger  had  faded  from  her  face,  which  wore  its  look  of  a 
brave,  ill-treated  child. 

"It  would  be  better  for  all  of  us  here,  I  think,"  she 
said  softly,  shaking  her  head  in  a  half-piteous  fash 
ion,  "if  you  took  yourself  back  to  your  West,  Q.  We 


134  "Q" 

are  not  strong  enough  —  we  old  vessels  —  for  your 
new  wine.  We  can't  think  singly  or  feel  straight. 
There  are  too  many  entanglements,  things  come  in 
thicknesses —  "  she  sighed.  "I'm  afraid  I'm  not 
very  clear  —  shall  we  do  some  work?  It's  nearly 
twelve  o'clock." 

"What  about  my  letter?"  he  demanded. 

She  shrugged.  "I  wash  my  hands  of  it.  I've  said 
everything  I  can  to  dissuade  you  from  sending  it.  I 
shall  be  sorry  if  you  do  anything  to  hurt  Dr.  Sales  or 
Sophie  or  Laurie.  But  you  are  very  sure  of  yourself, 
it  seems." 

He  gave  her  a  queer  quick  glance  and  dropped  his 
eyes. 

"I  ain't  anything  like  that,"  he  said.  He  was  pro 
foundly  hurt. 

Lessons  began  in  grim,  unsmiling  earnest  and 
ended  in  no  lighter  fashion.  For  the  first  time,  Mary's 
scholar  went  away  without  comfort  and  left  her  with 
out  cheer. 

On  his  way  to  the  hotel,  Q  mailed  the  letter,  but 
when  the  white  envelope  had  dropped  out  of  his 
sight,  he  felt  heavy  of  heart  and  burdened  of  con 
science. 

"I'm  hittin'  a  dangerous  trail,"  he  confessed  to 
himself.  "I'm  likely  to  strike  quicksand  at  this 
fordin'." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  sense  of  guilty  defiance  that 
gave  him  that  afternoon  a  mood  of  recklessness.  He 
had  the  glittering  eye  and  tight  smile  of  a  dare-devil 
when  at  four  o'clock  of  the  afternoon  he  presented 


New  Wine  in  Old  Bottles  135 

himself  by  appointment  in  the  gilded  South  Parlor  at 
the  Manor.  At  first  glance  Heloise  recognized  that  he 
was  not  to  be  trifled  with  and  the  queer  waver  that 
his  stronger  moods  inspired  began  at  once  to  trouble 
her.  Q  was  aware,  but,  instead  of  softening  his  humor, 
the  awareness  seemed  to  flick  it.  This  was  their  first 
meeting  since  the  night  she  had  left  him  to  go  out 
into  the  moon-magic  with  Ferdy  Fadden.  They  were 
both  conscious  of  that  episode;  Lelo  guiltily,  he  re 
sentfully. 

"I  hev  brought  a  nag  that  goes  like  she  wanted  to 
get  there  first,"  said  Q,  "and  the  poor  dern  fool  is 
tied  up  to  a  machine  they  called  at  the  stables  a  dog 
cart.  It  looks  like  a  real  death-trap,  but  I  reckon  we 
can  make  it.  Want  to  come?  " 

"You're  going  to  take  me  for  a  drive,  Q?  How  de- 
liciously  absurd!  Buggy-riding!  Come  on,  I 'm  ready 
for  anything." 

"To-day,  to-morrow,  and  yesterday." 

"Why  not?  It's  better  to  be  ready  for  living,  is  n't 
it?  than  to  be  behind  the  game.  I  like  people  with 
pep,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  that's  why  I  chose  this  here  lady- 
hoss."  His  eyes  narrowed  at  her  as  she  climbed  in,  he 
standing  below  with  the  reins  in  his  hands.  "What 
are  you  all  duded  up  for  this  afternoon?" 

She  was  in  fact  beautifully  gowned  in  pale  green 
with  a  wide  hat  under  which  her  clear,  cool  beauty 
wore  a  nymph-like  purity. 

"To  fascinate  you,  of  course!" 

He  smiled.  "You  think  I'm  a  plumb  tenderfoot 
on  this  sort  of  trail,  don't  you?" 


136 "Q" 

He  climbed  in  and  the  "lady-hoss"  started  down 
the  long  straight  drive  with  a  bony,  long-stepping  vim 
that  threw  Heloise  back  against  the  seat-strap  and 
evoked  a  small  excited  laugh. 

"Very  well  —  if  you  want  the  whole  truth — I 
was  planning,  after  I  had  completely  demolished  you, 
to  get  what  was  left  of  you  to  leave  me  at  the  Country 
Club  where  I  am  to  have  tea  with  another  victim." 

"Mr.  Fer-dee-nand  Fadden,"  drawled  Q. 

"Don't  you  think  he's  a  charming  victim?  I  do." 

Q  guided  his  mare  around  the  gatepost  and  headed 
her  north. 

"She's  got  a  concrete  mouth,"  he  muttered,  "and 
gutta-percha  legs  and  her  back  is  made  of  elastic  and 
she  has  a  hard,  hard  heart";  then  with  hardly  a 
change  of  tone,  he  asked,  "Ain't  he  a  married  man, 
Heloise?" 

To  this  informality  of  nomenclature,  she  had  at 
last  persuaded  him. 

"Yes.  What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  How  proper  is 
our  Q!  You  have  a  lot  to  learn  yet,  my  dear  innocent, 
Western  friend !  Is  n't  Mrs.  Fayre  a  married  woman, 
and  don't  tell  me  you  have  n't  noticed  her  marked 
attentions  to  you!" 

Q's  face  flamed.  "She's  agoin'  to  get  the  lesson  of 
her  life,  that  lady,  if  she  don't  quit  temptin'  me." 

At  which  naively  shocking  statement  Heloise 
laughed  until  the  dog-cart  jerked  her  music  to  silence. 

"This  is  a  perfectly  awful  form  of  discipline  — 
this  dog-cart  of  yours,  Q!  —  What  will  you  do  to 
poor  Mrs.  Fayre  if  she  keeps  on  'tempting'  you?  — 
You're  too  dreadful." 


New  Wine  in  Old  Bottles  137 

"Well,  ma'am,  seems  like  she  entertains  the  notion 
that  a  man  is  a  safe  little  pet  animal,  like  some  kind 
of  lapdog.  Now  I  ain't  anything  like  that.  1 'm  not  a 
quarter  so  safe.  I  'm  a  real  man-critter  and  likely  as 
not  some  day  I'll  hug  her." 

Heloise  laughed  again.  "You've  never  hugged 
me!"  she  said. 

He  turned  upon  her  so  white  and  shocked  a  face 
that  she  drew  back  from  him. 

"Q,  I'm  sorry.  Don't  please  look  at  me  like  that. 
Don't  be  so  angry.  What  did  I  say?  I  did  n't  mean 
anything.  I  was  just  —  well,  teasing  you." 

He  turned  away  his  eyes.  "I  reckon  I  have  got  a 
whole  lot  to  learn,"  he  said  presently  between  his 
teeth,  "but  you've  got  some  to  learn  yet,  girl,  and 
I'd  sure  hate  for  you  to  get  your  learnin'  from  Fad- 
den  —  him  or  any  other  married  man  of  his  kind.  I 
know  more'n  you  think.  I've  seed  a  heap  of  ugly 
things,  likely  I  hev  done  some  ugly  things.  There's 
just  two  ends  to  that  married  game  —  one  way  you 
come  out  a  knave,  and  the  other  way  you  come  out  a 
fool.  If  you  're  a  woman,  you  don't  come  out  quite 
clean" 

Heloise  burned  —  face,  neck,  and  brow  —  burned 
with  pure  anger.  The  insult  of  the  phrase  as  one  even 
remotely  to  be  applied  to  her  was  a  whip  to  her  su 
periority.  She  bit  at  her  slender  pink  lip  and  drew  in 
her  breath. 

"One  must  amuse  one's  self,"  she  said  with  an  af 
fectation  that  made  the  bite  of  her  words  doubly  keen 
to  the  listener,  "in  this  impossible  place.  One  must 


138  "Q" 

have  some  excitement.  One  must  occasionally  have 
the  society  of  a  man  of  the  world,  or  one  gets  out  of 
practice  —  forgets  how  to  behave." 

He  laughed.  "  You  want  excitement.  Well,  ma'am, 
so  do  I.  There  ain't  enough  danger  in  this  place  for 
'one,'  I  figure  it.  Danger  is  what  'one's '  out  lookin' 
for." 

Before  she  knew  even  that  he  had  moved,  he  was 
out  along  the  shaft.  He  flung  up  his  arms  with  a  wild 
long  cry  —  he  did  something,  she  could  n't  see  what. 
The  mare  flung  herself  back,  snorted,  and  gathered 
her  long  bones  together.  Q  was  back  in  his  seat,  the 
reins  wrapped  about  his  wrist,  his  body  braced.  He 
looked  at  Heloise,  his  mask  thrown  down,  his  face 
gleaming,  young,  reckless,  hard  —  like  the  faces  of 
men  in  far  wild  places.  Heloise  clung  to  the  seat;  her 
hat  was  gone  already,  her  hair  streamed,  they  rocked 
along  the  road  at  a  speed  that  took  her  breath.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  the  cart  must  fly  to  pieces;  they 
racketed  down  a  hill,  flew  on  one  wheel  about  a  turn, 
flashed  by  a  motor  full  of  white  and  startled  faces 
which  drew  from  Lelo  half  an  hysterical  laugh,  they 
swerved  from  a  bridge,  bolted  down  a  bank,  incred 
ibly  steep,  splashed  through  a  deep  ford.  In  front  was 
a  ledge  that  seemed  to  overhang. 

"By  God!"  said  Q.   "She  means  to  make  it!" 

She  went  at  it  like  a  lunatic,  doubled  herself, 
jumped,  caught  at  the  earth  with  her  feet.  For  a  per 
ilous  moment  they  hung,  then  heaved  and  plunged 
up  to  the  roadside.  The  mare  stopped  and  stood 
shaking  all  over,  in  a  lather  of  foam. 


. New  Wine  in  Old  Bottles 139 

"Feelin'  better  now,  ain't  'one'?"  demanded  Q, 
looking  at  his  companion. 

She  too  was  shaking  from  head  to  foot  and  white 
and  wild. 

"You  were  trying  to  kill  me!"  she  panted,  when 
she  could  get  her  voice.  "Take  me  home.  I '11  never 
forgive  you." 

"I  thought  you  wanted  some  excitement.  Playin' 
with  death  is  a  heap  healthier  and  honester  than  some 
other  ways  of  get  tin'  it." 

He  turned  the  mare  and  then  regained  the  road 
and  began  to  trot  soberly  toward  home.  Heloise, 
with  shaking  hands,  arranged  her  hair.  "I  always 
trusted  you,"  she  began,  when  she  fancied  she  had  it 
in  order  —  it  was  really  a  one-sided  tangle  of  ruffled 
gold  and  she  had  a  quite  distracted  and  unaccustomed 
look  —  "but,  as  a  guide,  you  are  quite  as  untrained 
as  you  are  as  a  man  of  the  world.  I  don't  care  for 
savagery,  or  foolhardiness.  I  suppose  you  were  angry 
with  me  and  wanted  to  give  me  a  fright.  You  suc 
ceeded  perfectly.  But  I  have  lost  most  of  my  respect 
for  you.  I  knew  that  you  lacked  certain  qualities  of 
finish  and  polish,  things  that  come  by  birth  and  train 
ing,  but  I  did  think  that  you  had  a  fundamental  man 
liness  and  chivalry  — " 

"Your  color  is  comin'  back,"  said  Q,  "but  chiefly 
to  your  nose.  Ain't  that  comical?" 

She  was  silent,  but  the  color  suffused  itself  more 
becomingly. 

"Are  you  wan  tin'  to  meet  Mr.  Fer-dee-nand  at  the 
Club?" 


140 "Q" 

"I  told  you  I  wanted  to  go  home,"  she  snapped, 
her  temper  running  wild. 

"Oh,  I  forgot  your  orders.  You  ain't  lookin'  quite 
in  Fer-dee-nand's  class  just  at  present,  but  by  the 
time  you're  all  curried  up  and  brushed  down  again 
it'll  be  too  late  for  the  Club,  won't  it?  Say,  there's 
your  hat  on  a  bush  alongside  the  road  —  and  I  see 
two  cows  leanin'  ag'in'  a  fence  elbowin'  each  other  to 
make  out  what  in  thunder  the  thing  is.  I  wisht  Miss 
Mary  could  see  that!  If  you'll  hold  the  reins  I'll  col 
lect  it  for  you." 

She  held  the  reins  and  he  was  out  and  in  again  with 
his  lithe,  linked  movements.  They  drove  for  a  while 
in  silence.  The  shadows  were  lengthening  and  the 
katydids  were  at  a  frenzy  of  debate.  When  Q  next 
spoke  he  was  sober  enough. 

"  I  was  a  plumb  fool  to  put  you  into  danger,"  he  said, 
"but  I  am  often  took  that  way  with  foolishness  after 
I  hev  had  to  be  extry  responsible  for  long  spells.  You 
are  right  in  all  you  hev  told  me  and  I'll  be  swearin' 
likely  half  the  night  over  some  of  them  cuts  you  have 
given  me.  Maybe  I  deserved  them,  but  this  ain't  no 
pleasurin'  for  me,  this  summer,  lady,  and  you  sure 
had  ought  to  be  more  careful  sometimes."  There  had 
begun  to  be  a  shake  in  his  voice,  and  it  affected  her 
oddly,  with  shame  and  fear  and  pain.  "You  hev  got 
the  whip  hand  over  me  and  you  don't  often  spare  to 
use  it.  Was  n't  it  for  the  times  when  you  act  like  a 
real  live  woman,  when  you  look  at  me  like  you  uset  to 
out  there  in  the  big  places  —  I  'd  hev  quit  you  quite 
a  long  time  back.  But  you  keep  me  hopin'  —  and,  by 
God!  that's  what  hurts  most." 


New  Wine  in  Old  Bottles  141 

He  looked  at  her  and  she  was  perhaps  unreasonably 
startled  to  see  that  there  were  tears  in  his  cool  and 
brilliant  eyes.  She  found  herself  wondering  if  ever 
before  they  had  suffered  the  shame  of  that  stinging 
moisture.  For  an  instant  she  almost  understood. 

She  touched  his  arm  with  a  quick  finger,  then  bent 
her  face  to  both  her  hands. 

"I  am  bad,  Q,  bad,  cruel,  wicked,  selfish.  Go  away 
from  me;  because  I  Ve  been  hurt  myself,  I  '11  hurt  you. 
Go  away." 

He  gave  her  no  answer  and,  after  a  few  minutes, 
she  pulled  herself  together  and  put  on  her  hat.  The 
silence,  white  and  hard  on  his  part,  white  and  soft  on 
hers,  held  them  to  the  Manor  steps.  She  slowly 
mounted  them,  he  standing  at  the  foot.  She  crossed 
the  veranda  and  went  as  far  as  the  door.  There  was  a 
sound  of  voices  in  the  house.  She  hung  there  an  in 
stant,  then  suddenly  came  running  back  to  Q.  Her 
face  was  the  face  of  a  frightened  child,  large-eyed, 
intent.  She  stood  close  to  him  and  caught  his  arm  in 
both  hands,  shaking  it. 

"Don't  you  go  away!  Don't  you  leave  me!  Q!  I 
need  you  dreadfully,  most  dreadfully!"  She  pressed 
her  fingers  tight  and  fled,  this  time  into  the  house  and 
up  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  GAME  OF  CHESS 

THERE  is  no  life  so  selfish  and  indolent  that  it  has  not 
woven  into  itself  some  strands  of  real  emotion.  In 
the  life  of  Dr.  Sales,  that  amiable  drifter  before  the 
winds  of  opportunity,  there  were  two  such  fibrous 
webs.  One  held  him,  against  much  strain,  to  his  son, 
Laurie,  and  the  other  led  him  by  a  short-cut  down 
the  hill  and  through  a  tiny  shabby  copse  of  beech  and 
maple  trees,  carved  by  the  initials  of  school-children 
and  town  lovers,  across  a  rubbish-littered  field  to  the 
back  door  of  Mary  Grinscoombe's  home.  He  liked  to 
come  in  through  the  kitchen  garden  and  surprise 
Mary  at  her  work.  He  was  preeminently,  like  all 
indolent  people,  a  man  of  habits.  He  had  formed  the 
habit  of  playing  for  an  hour  or  two  with  Mary  when 
that  outcast  descendant  of  Grinscoombery  was  an 
arch  and  mirthful  little  girl.  Mary's  gurgling  fits  of 
laughter,  crinkled  eyes,  and  fat  doubled  body  had  a 
distinct  fascination.  Dr.  Sales,  when  not  responsible 
for  them,  was  fond  of  children,  and  children  almost 
invariably  like  large,  selfish,  easy-going  people.  He 
thought  of  Mary  still,  he  would  have  told  you,  as  a 
child.  Her  fascination  of  soft  and  very  gleeful  laugh 
ter  and  of  crinkled  eyes  had  outlived  the  doubling-up 
of  an  outgrown  plumpness,  and  to  them  had  been 
added  a  rather  pitiful  charm  of  courage  and  sensitive 
gratitude.  Mary  mothered  Dr.  Sales  —  her  heart  was 


A  Game  of  Chess 143 

huge  in  this  capacity  —  she  did  his  mending  for  him 
and  she  played  him  at  chess,  the  most  strenuous  men 
tal  habit  of  his  life.  Sluypenkill  on  the  tongue  of  Mrs. 
Stopper  credited  Dr.  Sales  with  a  disappointed  pas 
sion  for  Miss  Selda;  it  credited  him  with  an  ambitious 
desire  for  a  match  between  his  son  and  Heloise;  it  had 
never  credited  him  with  a  devotion  for  little  Mary 
Grinscoombe  and  with  an  acid-eating  jealousy  con 
cerning  her  affections.  Both  were  true.  He  had  bit 
terly  hated  the  young  Dr.  Ellison  who  had  courted 
Mary,  and,  in  spite  of  the  good  cause  on  which  were 
founded  his  dislike  and  dread  of  Q.  T.  Kinwydden,  he 
did  not  hate  the  young  Westerner  with  full  bitterness 
until  a  certain  afternoon  when  he  saw  Mary  looking 
up  from  her  pupil's  copy-book  with  an  expression  in 
her  eyes.  Dr.  Sales  knew  those  eyes  —  their  waggery 
and  wistfulness;  he  knew  their  kindness  as  he  knew 
their  quick  warm  wrath.  He  had  never  seen  this  ex 
pression  in  them  before,  and,  at  sight  of  it,  his  heart 
turned  over  painfully  in  his  big  body.  He  knew  that 
Mary  was  no  longer  his  little  pet;  he  understood  why 
he  had  exerted  himself  rather  carefully  in  certain 
quarters  for  a  provision  for  her  future,  why  he  had 
allowed  her  to  believe  him  the  benefactor  of  her  father 
and  herself  when  he  was  really  only  the  purveyor  of 
secret  benefaction;  he  knew  why  he  had  so  disliked 
young  Ellison,  a  feeling  he  had  hitherto,  in  nearly 
honest  moments,  put  down  to  professional  jealousy, 
and,  above  all,  he  knew  why  he  must  drive  Q  at  once 
and  forever  out  of  her  life.  The  man  was  dangerous. 
The  young  man  was  very  dangerous.  Fine  little  beads 


144  "Q" 

of  perspiration  came  out  on  Dr.  Sales's  soft,  easily 
moved  upper  lip. 

But  not  until  a  fortnight  later  did  his  painful  pre 
occupation  move  his  sluggishness  to  action,  and  then, 
with  the  good  luck  that  mysteriously  enough  had 
always  directed  his  inertia,  he  chose  the  day  of  Mary's 
first  conflict  with  her  pupil.  Q  had  gone  off  to  mail 
his  letter  and  Mary  was  angry.  Her  advice  had  been 
ignored  and  her  rebuke  had  obviously  hurt  —  for 
both  reasons,  Mary,  the  obstinate  and  tender-hearted, 
was  enraged.  Besides,  she  had  suffered  a  self-revela 
tion.  For  twenty-four  years  Mary  had  scorned  Grins- 
coombery;  she  had  discovered  during  her  talk  with 
Q  that  of  this  pride  she  was  an  integral  part;  that 
amongst  all  its  descendants,  Grinscoombery  had  none 
with  so  large  a  share  as  herself  —  pride  of  culture, 
pride  of  caste,  pride  of  race.  How  else  account  for  her 
rebellion  against  the  marriage  between  Laurie  and 
Sophie,  "the  little  waitress"?  Q's  pounce  upon 
this  instinctive  diminutive  of  hers  had  been  shrewd 
enough.  Mary  writhed.  Pride  began  its  battle  in  her 
heart.  A  man  of  no  education,  of  no  name,  of  no 
traditions!  She  had  stood  with  a  muffled  heart  and 
with  averted  eyes,  on  fire  from  brow  to  foot  because 
he,  with  that  strained  note  in  his  voice,  had  repeated 
to  her  word  for  word  her  own  valorous  encourage 
ment.  "You  told  me  yourself  that  education  had  n't 
ought  to  count,  that  lovin'  was  a  man  and  woman 
matter  — "  and,  "Oh,"  poor  Mary  admitted,  "it  was. 
It  was."  If  he  had  loved  her,  would  she,  after  all, 
have  allowed  her  unbridled  heart  its  liberty?  Would 


A  Game  of  Chess  145 

she  not  have  stifled  it  and  run  away  —  like  Laurie 
Sales?  It  was  this  troubled,  proud,  and  self -torment 
ing  Mary  that  Dr.  Sales  found,  sitting  pale  and  va 
cant  in  her  tiny  parlor,  when  he  came  in  for  his  game 
of  chess  —  and  for  another  game  in  which  he  felt 
himself  a  player  with  a  handicap. 

He  got  the  board  ready  for  her  almost  in  silence 
and  began  an  absent  pushing  about  of  his  pieces 
which  drew  up  a  surprised  glance  from  Mary. 

"But,  Dr.  Sales,  what's  the  matter  with  you  to 
day?" 

He  moved  a  pawn  forward  and  took  it  back.  His 
big  hand  trembled. 

"Mary  — "  he  began,  and  stopped,  all  the  creamy 
complacency  of  his  big  face  crinkled  and  disturbed. 
She  felt  a  warning  tremor  run  through  her  nerves. 
It  was  as  though  a  strange  light  fell  into  the  littl? 
room.  Its  familiarity  vanished,  the  man  in  front  of 
her  changed  before  her  eyes.  Comfortable  and  kindly 
Dr.  Sales,  who  had  kept  lemon  drops  for  her  in  his 
constricted  waistcoat  pocket  —  she  remembered  a 
hundred  odd  and  disconnected  things  while  he  sat 
there,  dumbly  staring  after  speaking  her  name. 

"Tell  me  something,"  he  said  at  last.  "You  think 
of  me  as  an  old  man,  don't  you?" 

"Why,  no  —  only  as  an  old  friend." 

"Ah  —  un  ancien  ami!"  he  muttered.  "It  would 
be  easier  if  our  word  for  such  friendships  was  amiete, 
easier  to  change  it  as  it  ought  so  often  to  be  changed. 
I  —  I'd  like  you  to  begin  all  over  again,  Mary." 

"Begin  what — ?"    She  pushed  away  the  chess- 


146  "Q" 

board  and  moved  back  a  little  from  the  table.  Her 
face  was  pale.  She  was  saying  to  herself  —  and  hat 
ing  herself  for  saying  it:  "Papa  and  I  owe  him  hun 
dreds  of  dollars.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  his  help — ! 
If  it  had  n't  been  for  his  help  — !" 

"Begin  all  over  again  with  me,  my  dear."  He  got 
up  and  began  moving  about  the  room  in  his  seeking, 
undecided  fashion,  stopping  sometimes  by  the  man 
tel,  sometimes  near  her  chair,  his  hands  sliding  over 
his  pockets,  across  his  big  stomach,  fingering  the  big 
gold  chain.  He  talked  gently  and  fluently,  perhaps  a 
trifle  bookishly,  as  people  brought  up  in  the  Victorian 
school  still  talk  in  moments  of  emotion. 

"I've  been  troubled  about  you,  little  Mary,  and 
it's  by  troubling  that  I've  found  out  the  truth  about 
myself  and  you.  I  don't  want  you,  please,  my  dear, 
to  say  anything  at  all  to  me  now;  I  want  you,  please, 
my  dear,  to  sit  just  where  you  are  and  as  you  are  and 
listen  to  me.  And  don't  be  frightened.  I've  never 
frightened  you  in  my  life  and  I  'm  not  going  to  begin 
now.  It 's  true  I  Ve  been  your  friend  and  your  father's 
friend—" 

"Very,  very  true,"  she  gasped,  wondering  why  it 
was  a  gasp  instead  of  the  quiet  little  assertion  she  had 
intended  it  to  be. 

"And  I  mean,  please  God,  to  keep  on  being  your 
friend." 

Her  eyelids  trembled  with  uncertainty.  "  What  has 
been  troubling  you  about  me?"  she  asked. 

"You've  never  been  a  silly  girl,  Mary,  nor  a  senti 
mental  girl.  You've  been  sober  and  steady  — " 


A  Game  of  Chess  147 

"Like  a  work-horse,"  Mary  yielded  to  her  tart 
sense  of  the  ridiculous  and  twisted  her  mouth  dis 
tastefully  over  his  adjective. 

"Like  a  good  woman,"  he  said.  "I  —  I've  always 
had  confidence  in  you." 

She  was  coloring.   "  What  have  I  done  —  to  — ?  " 

"Oh,  you  have  n't  lost  this  confidence,  only  I  feel 
I  ought  to  warn  you,  that  perhaps  you  do  need  a 
warning  — " 

"Dr.  Sales,"  she  cried  out  unexpectedly,  "it's  too 
late ! "  —  and  scarlet  engulfed  the  fine  courage  of  her 
face  like  a  red  fog  of  shame  through  which  her  eyes 
shone  up  at  him  dauntlessly. 

Dr.  Sales  stopped  heavily  and  stood.  The  tiny 
clock  ticked.  A  child  pelted  with  tap-tapping  feet 
beneath  the  window.  Slowly  Mary  bent  forward  her 
face  and  closed  her  lids,  gripping  fast  with  small  work- 
roughened  hands  the  wicker  arms  of  her  chair. 

"But  it's  no  use,  Dr.  Sales;  he  doesn't  care  for 
me  —  that  way  —  at  all." 

"  Mary !  Are  you  talking  of  —  of  this  —  Q?  " 

"Yes." 

Dr.  Sales  seemed  to  gather  voice.  "This  rough 
product  of  cow-camps  —  illiterate,  without  an  ounce 
of  culture  or  refinement !  But  I  thought  you  had  good 
sense."  He  laughed,  his  lips  shaken. 

Mary  had  lifted  her  chin;  the  red  fog  of  her  shame 
had  dropped  back  on  her  heart,  leaving  her  white  and 
marked  with  purple  under  her  eyes. 

"I  ought  n't  to  care,"  she  said,  as  though  to  her 
self.  "I 've  called  him  most  of  those  things  myself." 


148  "Q" 

"And  you  are  telling  me  that  you  —  love  this  man? 
I  can't  believe  it,  Mary ! " 

4klt's  hopelessly  and  humiliatingly  true.  Nothing 
would  have  dragged  it  out  of  me,  Dr.  Sales,  but  the 
dread  of  what  I  fancied  you  were  going  to  say." 

Again  he  laughed.  "Why,  this  young  man  will 
have  to  be  taken  seriously.  He  is  more  dangerous 
than  I  thought.  And  a  cool  hand !  Any  young  fellow 
that  strolls  in  from  a  cow-camp  and  juggles  with  the 
hearts  of  three  young  women  at  once  — 

"Dr.  Sales!" 

He  went  on  breathlessly,  "Miss  Heloise  Grins- 
coombe  and  Miss  Mary  Grinscoombe  and  —  the 
waitress  at  the  River  Hotel  —  something  of  a  record, 
eh?" 

Mary  stood  up.  She  had  drawn  her  eyelids  to 
gether  and  peered  at  him  now  as  though  she  had  a 
difficulty  with  her  vision. 

"I  don't  know  you,"  she  announced  slowly,  and 
the  strangeness  of  this  remark  made  him  step  back. 
She  went  over  to  a  little  battered  desk.  "Dr.  Sales," 
she  said,  "I  have  been  earning  a  good  deal  of  money 
lately.  I  want  to  pay  back  some  part  of  Papa's  great 
debt  to  you  —  and  mine." 

While,  shakily,  she  opened  an  unwilling  drawer, 
while  she  took  out  a  small  bundle  of  bills,  while  she 
counted  these,  white-lipped,  there  came  from  William 
Sales  not  a  sound.  He  stood,  ponderous,  unexpres- 
sive,  blowing  noiselessly  in  and  out  his  flapping  lips. 
He  took  the  bills  from  Mary's  hands  and  she  had  the 
courage  to  look  him  in  the  face  as  he  took  them. 


A  Game  of  Chess 149 

"So  you're  paying  me  off,"  he  said. 

"Everything,"  she  cried  out  in  a  voice  of  extreme 
suffering,  "is  just  utterly  unbearable.  If  it  were  n't  so 
childish  and  useless,  I'd  wish  I  was  dead." 

Dr.  Sales  had  put  the  money  down  on  the  table  in 
the  center  of  the  chess-board.  He  seemed  calmer  now 
and,  taking  out  a  big  crumpled  white  handkerchief, 
he  mopped  his  forehead  and  blew  his  nose. 

"This  is  a  very  small  part  of  your  debt  to  me,  Mary 
Grinscoombe.  How  are  you  going  to  pay  off  the  rest?  " 

"I  don't  know.  But  it  will  be  paid.  How  did  you 
expect  it  to  be  paid?" 

"It  seems  very  strange  to  me,  Mary,  for  us  to  be 
talking  like  bitter,  angry  enemies.  Does  n't  it  seem 
at  least  a  little  strange  to  you?" 

"I  told  you  —  I  did  n't  know  you.  And  I  don't. 
What  you  said  about  Heloise  and  me  and  Sophie  just 
—  tore  my  whole  idea  of  you  to  shreds.  It  was  so 
vulgar  and  so  untrue.  I  happen  to  know  just  how 
untrue  it  is.  In  fact,  I  meant  to  give  you  a  warning 
about  Sophie  — " 

"A  warning?"  A  man  whose  moral  standing  is 
based  on  machinations  is  readily  alarmed.  Dr.  Sales 
now  looked  almost  absurdly  jout  of  countenance.  He 
sat  down  in  the  wicker  chair  which  had  permanently 
bulged  to  cradle  his  proportions. 

"But  I  don't  think  I'll  give  it  to  you,  that  is,  more 
fully  than  I  've  already  given  it.  I  feel  so  uncertain  of 
all  my  cock-sure  opinions  to-day.  Nothing  would 
surprise  me." 

"And  yet  you  are  so  much  surprised  and  so  indig 
nant  to  find  out  that  —  I  love  you,  Mary!" 


150 "Q" 

"Oh,  please  go  away!"  she  broke  out  tearfully. 
"  Oh  —  please!" 

And  without  waiting  for  him  to  yield  to  the  request 
or  to  rebel  against  it,  she  went  away  herself,  upstairs 
to  her  room  with  the  speed  of  an  escaping  dryad. 

Dr.  Sales  left  the  money  on  the  table  and  went 
over  to  Mary's  desk.  There  he  sat  down  and  put  his 
elbows  on  the  flap  and  pressed  his  two  fat  palms  to 
his  throbbing  temples.  After  a  while  he  pulled  a 
sheet  of  paper  toward  him  and  began  to  write.  He 
represented  himself  to  Mary,  as  we  would  any  of  us 
probably  represent  ourselves  to  our  desired,  as  a  very 
noble,  self-sacrificing  man.  He  wrote  rather  well,  and 
if  his  flowing  pen  indulged  in  shaded,  flowery  capitals, 
it  was  the  fault  of  the  Victorian  training.  As  he  wrote, 
the  smooth  calm  returned  to  his  face  and  his  small 
eyes  reverted  to  complacency.  Mary  and  her  father 
were  really  rather  deeply  in  his  debt  —  by  proxy.  He 
did  not  accentuate  this  fact  in  his  letter,  but  it  some 
how  slid  in  between  the  lines.  Mary  had  confessed  an 
extremity  of  folly  and  humiliation  to  him  —  he  did 
not  refer  to  this  either,  but  it  was  very  vividly  ex 
pressed  in  what  he  left  out.  Mary  knew  something 
about  Q  and  Sophie  against  which  Laurie's  father 
should  be  warned  —  this  again  was  triumphantly 
avoided  in  the  letter  and  triumphantly  readable  in  it. 
In  fact,  it  was  hard  to  imagine  what  Dr.  Sales  put 
into  the  letter  when  he  left  out  everything  that  he 
wanted  to  say.  But  his  whole  career  had  been  a  tri 
umph  of  innuendo.  The  general  tenor  of  his  letter 
was  like  this: 


A  Game  of  Chess  151 

"My  poor  darling  little  Mary:"  (much  was  ex 
pressed,  of  course,  by  that  "poor  little,"  for  Mary 
must  at  once  on  reading  it  understand  how  she  had 
made  herself  so  poor  and  little  in  the  writer's  judg 
ment)  . 

"  What  an  unfortunate,  miserable  hour  we  have  just 
spent  in  contrast  to  all  the  many  lovely  and  tender 
hours  we  have  enjoyed  together  ever  since  I  picked 
you  up  from  your  first  tumble  —  I  feel,  my  poor  dear, 
that  I  've  been  picking  you  up  ever  since.  But  I  want 
you  to  forget  all  that.  I  know  that  when  you  are  calm 
again  you  will  do  me  ample  justice.  You  are  my  dear 
little  friend,  you  can't  help  being  that,  and  just  be 
cause,  extravagantly,  I'm  asking  you  for  more  than 
this  dear  friendship,  you  won't  go  back  on  your 
loyalty,  will  you?  I  said  things  that  have  annoyed 
and  offended  you.  Forgive  me  —  even  if  you  find  out 
that  they're  true. 

"Mary,  you  know  me  probably  better  than  any 
one  else  in  the  world.  Have  I  ever  hurt  you?  Have  I 
ever  done  you  the  least  unkindness?  I'd  like  now  to 
take  you  in  my  arms  and  comfort  your  poor  heart. 
Will  you  let  me?  Because  it  will  be  comforted.  It's 
such  a  true,  good,  loyal  heart  and  so  sensible.  Don't 
you  know  that?  "  (For  several  paragraphs  Dr.  Sales 
told  Mary  pleasant  truths  about  her  heart  and  so  got 
round  to  telling  her  some  about  his  own.)  "I  am  a 
man  of  very  deep  feeling,  dear  Mary,  and  you  've  hurt 
me  horribly.  But  I  can  —  oh,  so  easily,  forgive  you 
for  that.  Only  —  I  am  going  to  stay  away  until  you 
send  for  me.  I  have  put  your  poor  little  treasure 


152 "Q" 

trove  back  into  its  drawer.  I  know  >  that  you  won't 
wound  me  unbearably  by  taking  it  out  again  in  my 
presence.  Don't  I  love  your  brave  father,  too? 
Please  try  to  remember  my  friendship  for  him.  The 
rest  of  the  world  has  n't  been  as  friendly,  has  it?  " 

This  is  enough  to  show  the  sort  of  letter  Dr.  Sales 
wrote  to  Mary.  He  left  it  in  her  workbox,  returned 
her  money  to  its  drawer,  and  walked  slowly  away 
through  the  kitchen  garden.  But  he  did  not  go  back 
by  the  short-cut  to  his  house  on  the  hill.  He  made  a 
circuit  and  went  into  the  Grinscoombe  Circulating 
Library.  In  a  corner  up  on  the  balcony,  Henry  Grins- 
coombe's  fine  white  head  was  outlined  against  an  al- 
coved  window.  Dr.  Sales  climbed  ponderously  up  an 
iron  staircase  and  puffily  approached  him.  The  lit 
tle  man  looked  up  from  his  world  of  contemplation 
and  smiled  in  rather  a  startled  fashion. 

"Why,  William  —  this  is  delightfully  —  er  —  un 
usual!  You  ought  to  be  at  chess  with  Mary!" 

Dr.  Sales  sat  down  on  a  spidery  iron  chair.  He 
spoke  low,  for  it  was  a  rule  in  the  library  not  to  speak 
at  all.  However,  as  Henry  was  the  only  reader  pres 
ent,  there  was  no  particular  indiscretion  in  his  whisper. 

"Mary  and  I  have  quarreled,  Henry." 

The  little  Grinscoombe  fell  back  astonished  from 
his  big  volume  and  looked  as  troubled  as  a  Martian 
can  look,  when  disturbed  by  earthly  forces. 

"Oh,  my  dear  William!  But  you  know  how  quick 
tempered  Mary  is!" 

"She  has  really  hurt  me.  And  I'm  worried  about 
her." 


A  Game  of  Chess  153 

"Worried  about  Mary?"  The  poor  Martian  had 
now  plunged  into  very  deep  currents  of  worldly  trou 
ble.  He  shut  his  finger  into  the  volume  and  rested  its 
edge  upon  his  sharp  small  knee.  It  was  a  huge  tome. 
His  face  peered  anxiously  above  it.  His  nostrils  un 
consciously  inhaled  its  familiar  pleasant,  leathery 
smell.  He  would  be  glad  to  get  back  to  it  after  so 
wretched  an  interruption.  Henry  did  not  permit 
himself  to  dislike  William  Sales,  but,  with  permission 
from  a  too  masterly  conscience,  he  could  have  dis 
liked  him  very  acidly. 

"Mary  has  been  foolish  enough  to  fall  in  love." 

"What  are  you  saying,  sir!"  The  sharp,  clear 
Grinscoombe  voice  was  reminiscent  of  Miss  Selda's. 
It  roused  the  lazy  masterfulness  of  Sales's. 

"Just  an  unpleasant  truth.  You  have  allowed  little 
Mary  to  mother  you  so  long  through  all  your  adversi 
ties  that  you  Ve  quite  forgotten  that  she  might  need 
a  little  fathering  —  is  n't  that  it?" 

"I  am  not  accustomed  to  being  admonished  as  to 
the  way  in  which  I  conduct  my  privacy." 

"Perhaps  not.  But  plenty  of  people,  if  they  had 
the  courage,  would  have  very  plentifully  and  fre 
quently  admonished  you.  In  all  honesty,  Henry,  you 
have  to  admit  that,  as  a  father  —  but  I  don't  want 
to  quarrel  with  you."  The  bully  was  satisfied  now 
with  the  white,  silent  anguish  of  his  victim. 

Henry  Grinscoombe  was  going  through  a  process 
which  he  called  "clarification."  He  was  being,  as  he 
had  always  disastrously  and  gloriously  succeeded  in 
being  —  honest  with  himself.  He  went  over,  with  a 


154 "Q" 

student's  painstaking  thoroughness,  his  record  as 
Mary's  father  and  put  down  an  unexpectedly  black 
mark  against  it.  Then,  removing  from  his  eyes  the 
hand  that  had  shielded  from  observation  his  painful 
self -interrogation,  he  spoke  purely  and  gallantly. 

"I  have  not  done  my  duty  by  Mary.  I  accept  this 
from  you,  and  I  will  act  upon  it.  But  I  don't  want  to 
sit  here  and  listen  to  your  judgments,  which,  on  the 
whole,  have  never  been  convincing,  nor  to  any  confi 
dence  which  Mary  has  seen  fit  to  give  you.  I  will  not 
force  her  confidence,  but  I  will  try  to  make  for  her  an 
opportunity  for  asking  my  help  if  she  feels  the  need 
of  it." 

Grinscoombe  had  stood  up,  putting  down  his  vol 
ume,  and  now  Sales  rose  with  one  of  his  usual  ponder 
ous,  untidy  motions. 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  Henry!"  —  and  he 
caught  Mary's  father  by  the  arm  in  one  of  his  soft, 
undecided  hands;  "you'll  listen  to  me  now.  She's  in 
love  with  her  precious  cowboy  and  I  know  him  to  be 
an  adventurer,  the  scum  of  the  West.  He 's  trying  to 
seduce  Sophie  and  to  trap  Heloise  Grinscoombe  into 
a  marriage.  What  he  is  doing  to  Mary  — " 

"Be  silent,  William!"  —  and  it  might  figuratively 
be  said  that  Henry  Grinscoombe  both  towered  and 
thundered.  "The  young  man  is  my  friend.  I  know 
him  as  though  I  had  looked  through  a  powerful  lens 
into  his  heart.  Nothing  you  can  concoct  would  shake 
a  fiber  of  my  feeling  for  this  young  man.  If  Mary 
loves  him  — " 

"You'd  give  her  to  an  ignorant,  nameless  — " 


A  Game  of  Chess  155 

Up  went  Henry's  hand  in  the  commanding  Grins- 
coombe  gesture. 

"  I  give  Mary  to  no  man.  She  is  not  in  my  gift.  To 
me,  ignorance  or  wisdom  is  a  matter  outside  the 
judgment  of  schools.  The  young  man  is  not  ignorant. 
In  no  true  sense  of  the  word  is  he  ignorant.  If  he  is 
nameless,  remember  that  if  I  had  lived  by  the  dark 
ness  of  your  creed,  William,  my  first  child  must  have 
been  nameless.  Your  knowledge  of  this  man  is  prej 
udice,  from  the  surface  in.  My  knowledge  of  him  is 
from  the  soul  out.  'It  is  not  that  which  goeth  into  a 
man  that  defileth  him,'  William,  'but  that  which 
cometh  out,'  and  from  Q.  Kinwydden,  the  man  I 
know,  cometh  no  vile  thing.  Prodigal  he  may  have 
been,  wayward  and  untamed  he  is,  but  liar  and  trai 
tor  and  philanderer  he  is  not  —  We  are  making  a  dis 
turbance  in  the  library!" 

The  little  gentleman  had  not,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
raised  his  delicate  voice,  but  the  syllables  were  pierc 
ing;  over  their  vibrations,  Sales's  glabrous  syllables 
smothered  down  weightily  — 

"I  intend  to  marry  Mary,"  he  said.  "You  will  not 
work  against  me,  Henry,  when  I  remind  you  that  — " 

"That  I  am  in  your  debt?"  Grinscoombe  drew 
himself  up  to  his  uttermost  inch  and  his  white  pa 
nache  waved  free.  "It  shall  be  paid,  sir."  He  bowed. 
"But  never,  let  me  assure  you,  in  the  person  of  my 
daughter."  A  queer  flash  of  humor,  at  once  cynical 
and  sweet,  broke  up  his  face  into  frosty  twinklings. 
"My  good  William,  you've  been  watching  the  drama 
too  closely,  haven't  you?  —  perhaps  the  drama  of 


156  "Q" 

the  screen.  I  am  told  that  the  daughters  of  shadow- 
land  are  frequently  victimized  in  this  fashion.  The 
father  is  forced  into  indebtedness,  the  daughter 
pays."  He  laughed;  he  had  a  merry  laugh,  an  echo  of 
Mary's  —  the  two  laughters  had  grown  into  harmony 
through  the  gay,  sad,  struggling,  happy  years.  "Oh, 
William!"  —  he  shook  his  head  —  "I  have  always 
been  ashamed  of  my  suspicions  of  your  friendship.  I 
am  sorry  my  intuition  has  been  justified.  There  is  no 
virtue  in  your  charity,  Sales.  It  is  a  very  bad  debt. 
It  must  be  paid." 

He  looked  down  at  a  mass  of  finely  scribbled  man 
uscript.  He  pinched  together  tight  his  face.  His  be 
loved  and  unprofitable  work !  —  and,  bundling  up 
the  papers  under  his  arm,  he  went  away  from  Sales  as 
though  the  big  bulk  of  a  man  had  become  non-exist 
ent  to  him. 

But  out  on  the  street,  Grinscoombe's  flush  faded. 
He  drooped.  He  came  home  to  Mary,  looking  beaten, 
humbled,  and  depressed.  Nor  did  he,  on  that  day,  ut 
ter  one  word  of  the  painful  and  absorbing  experience 
to  Mary.  He  watched  her  a  great  deal,  closely,  ten 
derly,  discerningly,  and  shaded  his  watching  with  a 
tremulous,  fine  hand. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

DIPLOMACY 

THE  letter  that  Q  had  dropped  into  the  post-box  in 
defiance  of  Mary's  counsel  bore  fruit  in  action,  as  is 
the  mysterious  fashion  of  such  seed,  and  on  a  Thurs 
day  afternoon,  Laurence  Sales  left  his  motor  and 
walked  into  the  lobby  of  the  River  Hotel.  He  looked 
and  thought  himself  cool  as  chilled  iron;  memory  it 
self  brought  no  quickness  to  his  pulses;  nevertheless, 
his  eyes  threw  an  involuntary  glance  toward  the  din 
ing-room,  but  Sophie,  at  the  moment,  was  washing 
dishes  in  her  pantry  and  thinking  him  fifty  miles  or  so 
away.  Mr.  Benton  lifted  a  sallowed  face  in  his  cage 
and  his  lips  fell  apart. 

"So  you've  come  back  to  Sluypenkill,  Dr.  Lau 
rie,"  said  he,  employing  a  toothpick  as  he  spoke  and 
pulling  his  lips  into  the  semblance  of  an  hotel-keeper's 
smile. 

"Only  to  see  a  patient"  —  Laurie  made  no  effort 
to  smile  and  spoke  shortly.  "A  man  with  queer  name 
—  Kinwydden.  I've  an  appointment  with  him." 

"What  —  you  don't  say!  Mr.  Kinwydden  —  but 
he's  not  sick !  He  came  back  this  morning  after  a  five 
days'  absence,  during  which  they  tell  me  he  worked 
at  the  mills.  Great  character,  Kinwydden!  Queer 
chap!" 

"Will  you  find  out  if  he  can  see  me  now?" 

The  answer  reported  presently  by  grinning  Bill 


158 "Q" 

was  —  "Turn  him  loose,"  and  Laurie  was  lifted  to  the 
fourth  floor. 

At  the  door  of  Room  90  he  knocked  and,  on  being 
told  to  enter  in  a  voice  that  suggested  patience,  he 
found  himself  facing  a  tall  and  bronzed  young  man 
faultlessly  dressed  and  very  perfectly  groomed,  who, 
at  sight  of  him,  turned  a  deep  copper  color  and  rip 
pled  out  an  oath.  Laurie  set  down  his  bag  and  held 
out  his  hand. 

"Mr.  Cartwright  —  by  all  that's  surprising!"  he 
said. 

Q's  face  was  regularly  assaulted  by  shocks  of  red. 
He  was  profoundly  discomposed.  Last  of  all  people 
had  he  expected  to  see  in  Laurence  Sales  the  keen, 
clever,  red-headed  young  man  that  had  rescued  and 
admonished  him  on  the  occasion  of  his  uncomfort 
able  New  York  experience.  The  very  apparent  supe 
riority  of  this  admonisher,  his  shrewd  humor  sense, 
his  authority,  his  self-restraint,  had  impressed  them 
selves  forcibly  on  the  sensitive  observation  of  Q. 
Sophie's  "Laurie  boy"  who  needed  "one  of  them 
long  bones  down  his  back,"  whom  he  had  been 
minded  to  shake  into  manliness  —  to  thrash  into  a 
decision  favorable  to  romance,  if  necessary  —  van 
ished  into  a  thin,  thin  mist.  What  face  to  present  to 
the  man  with  humorous  and  impatient  eyes  Q  could 
not  now  decide. 

"  What 's  wrong  with  the  wrist?  You  have  n't  been 
rescuing  any  more  ladies  in  distress,  I  hope?" 

Q  had  stepped  back  and  had  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  his  bed.  He  was  meditating  soberly  and  swiftly  if 


Diplomacy  159 


it  would  be  possible  then  and  there  to  gash  his  wrist 
convincingly  with  his  pocket  knife  or  to  do  some  other 
self -justify  ing  damage.  Under  Laurie's  sardonic,  danc 
ing  eyes  he  relinquished  the  idea.  He  decided  to 
hold  his  peace  —  it  was  the  method  that  had  always 
served  him  best  —  so,  in  silence,  he  held  out  a  strong 
brown  hand.  Across  the  wrist  ran  a  violent  scar  and 
Laurie  bent  over  it  and  felt  about  it  with  clever  fin 
gers. 

"It's  not  inflamed  nor  swollen,"  he  said.  "Any 
pain?" 

"It's  almighty  difficult  for  me,"  said  Q  truthfully, 
"to  handle  a  pen." 

"You  mean  you  feel  a  stiffness  in  your  fingers? 
Flex  them." 

"  What  in  thunder  — ?" 

"Bend  them."  Q  obeyed,  his  eyes  lowered.  The 
strong,  long  fingers  clenched  and  relaxed  powerfully. 

Laurie,  impersonal  and  interested,  felt  carefully  up 
and  down  the  muscles  of  the  arm  and  made  some 
tests  to  which  Q  surrendered  himself  with  Sphinx- 
like  gravity. 

"Tell  me  the  story  of  the  wound,"  demanded  the 
baffled  surgeon,  sitting  down  in  the  chair  opposite  his 
queer  patient  and  looking  at  him  with  a  bewildered 
air. 

Q  slowly  obeyed  him.  "A  lady,  "he  said,  had  "knifed 
him "  —  by  accident.  She  had  meant  to  cut  a  stick 
and  she  had  cut  his  arm  instead.  It  had  been  sewed 
up  by  Dr.  Sales  —  any  relation?  A  father?  Is  that 
so?  It  had  seemed  to  heal  all  right. _  Yes,  it  had  sure 


160  "Q" 

seemed  to  heal.  If  it  was  n't  for  the  trouble  guidin'  a 
pen  — 

Laurie  rose  impatiently,  produced  a  tablet  and  pen 
cil  and  presented  them  to  Q. 

"Here  —  write  something  for  me." 

Q  stared  for  a  moment  into  space,  then  laboriously 
fashioned  a  phrase.  "I  am  reskuing  a  lady  now,"  he 
wrote,  "I  am  reskuing  a  lady  for  you." 

Room  90  was  dangerously  silent  while  Sales  read 
this  message.  He  read  it  and  looked  up  sharply.  His 
face  revealed  an  unsuspected  haggardness. 

"Will  you  explain  yourself?"  he  asked,  and  Q  re 
membered  that  red-headed  people  were  apt  to  be  vio 
lent. 

"I  don't  rightly  know  how  I  can,"  he  said,  speak 
ing  very  quietly  and  rather  soothingly,  as  to  a  restive 
horse.  "I've  been  thinkin'  you  was  one  of  these  fel 
lers  that  needs  to  be  yanked  by  the  collar  to  get  their 
circulation  goin'." 

"So  it  was  to  yank  me  by  the  collar  that  you  faked 
an  injured  wrist,  eh?" 

Q  continued  evenly,  with  no  attention  to  this  com 
ment:  "But  I  see  you  ain't.  So  I  reckon  I've  been 
makin'  a  fool  of  myself  again.  And  I  'd  be  pleased  if 
you'd  lope  back  to  West  Lemmon  and  leave  me  to 
bury  myself  on  the  lone  prairee  —  unless  you  'd  be 
carin*  to  tell  me  —  "  He  stopped  and  looked  at  Lau 
rie  with  a  certain  wistfulness.  "  Out  on  the  range,"  he 
said,  "I've  got  a  partner,  Shorty  by  name  —  some- 
ways  you  favor  him  —  " 

Laurie  was  conscious  of  a  thrill,  unusual  and  pro~ 


Diplomacy  161 


found.  He  knew  that  such  a  man  as  the  one  before 
him  rarely  laid  himself  so  open  to  rebuff. 

"What,"  asked  Laurie  slowly,  "do  you  want  to 
know?" 

Q  spoke,  without  looking  at  him,  very  low.  "Why 
hev  you  quit  writin'  letters  to  the  Sophie  gel?" 

At  that  Laurie  began  to  roam  about  the  room,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his  head  bent. 

"But,  Kinwydden,"  he  explained,  in  a  tone  com 
posed  of  exasperation  and  patience,  "it's  the  last 
story  on  earth  I  could  tell,  or  explain,  to  an  outsider 
—  especially  to  you .  I  suppose  you  know  one  side  of 
the  story.  I  suppose  that,  living  here,  you  have  seen 
Sophie,  got  to  know  her  —  that  she  has  told  you  — • 
well"  —  frowning  down  at  him  —  "she  would.  I  can 
see  that  —  !  You  being  what  you  are,  a  confidence 
from  her  is  pretty  nearly  inevitable.  But  I  am  not  — 
Sophie,  nor  are  my  confidences  very  easily  com 
pelled." 

Q  said  nothing  and,  as  usual,  his  silence  worked  for 
him. 

"You  are  —  or  were,  a  cowboy  —  are  n't  you?" 
rather  unexpectedly,  Laurie  demanded. 

"  Yes,  sir  —  was  and  is  —  at  least,  not  now,  I  ain't." 

In  the  midst  of  considerable  confusion  of  heart  and 
mind,  Laurie  was  constrained  to  smile.  "Well,  then, 
did  you  love  your  work  —  was  it  a  career?" 

"Hosses  —  and  cattle  —  yes,  sir.  I  liked  the 
round-ups  and  the  ridin'  and  the  range  —  "  To  his 
own  surprise  Q's  throat  tightened  on  this  speech,  and 
he  stopped  with  dry  lips. 


162  "Q" 

"I  don't  believe,"  Laurie  went  on  rapidly,  "that 
Sophie  could  tell  you  what  my  profession  means  to 
me.  Nor  what  my  ambitions  are,  nor  how  profoundly 
I've  felt  that  her  future  and  her  happiness  would  be 
quite  definitely  endangered  by  —  It 's  queer  enough 
to  find  myself  talking  to  you  about  it!" 

"No,  that  ain't  so  queer.  Or  anyway,  if  it  is,  forget 
it.  Likely  you  don't  know  what  she's  been  goin* 
through  since  you  quit  her.  Not  havin'  a  career  her 
self"  —  for  the  life  of  him,  Q  could  not  keep  the  edged 
drawl  from  his  voice  —  "  you  can't  hardly  call  bis- 
cuit-shootin'  a  career,  and  bein'  a  woman  —  "  with  a 
guileless  air  Q  looked  up.  "Fancy  her  bein'  married 
to  Jonas  Benton,"  he  said. 

Laurie  stood  with  his  head  thrown  back  and 
breathed  hard. 

After  a  turn  or  two  he  walked  over  to  the  window. 
"It's  been  three  years,"  he  muttered;  "hasn't  she 
forgotten  yet?" 

"In  three  years?"  Q  drawled.  "Your  Sophie  gel? 
Not  in  thirty  will  she  forget." 

He  stared  at  Sales's  back  and  Sales  stared  down 
into  the  street.  Into  the  silence  came  a  muffled  tread 
and  the  faint  clinking  of  ice,  followed  by  a  knock 
ing  at  Q's  door.  He  had  told  Sophie  to  bring  him  a 
pitcher  of  iced  lemonade  at  four  o'clock.  Now,  "I 
am  going  to  send  her  away,"  he  said  firmly,  and 
crossed  the  room. 

But  Laurie  was  ahead  of  him  and,  an  instant  later, 
a  tray  crashed  to  the  floor  outside  Q's  door,  Sophie 
stood  inside  the  closed  room  and  Laurie  had  her  in  his 


Diplomacy  163 


arms.  Q  walked  to  a  window,  clutched  its  sill  and, 
looking  down  into  Main  Street,  wished  himself  in  the 
saloon.  Back  of  him  there  was  a  quick-breathing 
silence,  until  Sophie  spoke.  She  said  two  words, 
sobbing.  "My  heart." 

It  frightened  Q,  who  faced  about.  He  saw  that  hers 
was  a  heart  unbearably,  swiftly  enlarged  by  joy.  Lau 
rie's,  however,  was  already  shrunk  by  pain.  He  was 
walking  to  and  fro  about  the  room,  his  red  head  bent, 
his  under  lip  bitten,  his  hands  locked  behind  him  so 
that  the  knuckles  were  white.  Lines  had  sprung  into 
visibility  around  his  mouth.  Sophie  was  watching 
him;  her  beauty  paled. 

"I  —  did  n't  know,"  she  faltered.  "It  was  n't  any 
doings  of  mine,  Laurie." 

"Of  course  not  —  "  He  jerked  this  out.  Then  he 
turned  upon  Q,  his  quick,  restless  eyes  ablaze. 

"Will  you  give  us  your  room  for  five  minutes, 
please,  master  diplomat,  while  I  try  to  put  some  bro 
ken  pieces  together  again?  You  might  gather  up 
what's  left  of  the  pitcher  —  it  won't  be  half  so  hard 
as  what  I've  got  to  do.  Sophie"  —  he  went  over  to 
her  as  Q  hastened  to  the  door  —  "did  n't  you  know 
that  I  was  engaged  to  be  married?  I  wrote  to  you." 

Her  lips  said  "no,"  making  a  white,  noiseless  mo 
tion.  Q  shut  the  door  and  found  himself  across  the 
hall,  gripping  the  balustrade  of  the  stair-well  and 
gazing  blindly  down  at  the  white  and  chocolate 
squares  of  the  floor  three  flights  below  him.  He  could 
hear  the  murmur  of  Laurie's  voice.  It  went  on  after 
the  first  sentences  more  evenly.  Q  was  remembering 


164 "Q" 

the  branding  of  small  calves.  He  had  always  hated 
that  —  hated  the  way  their  soft  eyes  rolled,  trying  to 
find  the  lost  protecting  mother  body  —  there  had 
been  something  like  that  in  Sophie's  eyes.  He  gripped 
the  balustrade  more  tightly.  Gradually  he  became 
aware  of  Benton's  head  bending  over  his  big  memoran 
dum  book  down  in  his  cage,  and  his  long,  cadaverous 
hand  making  cramped  writing  therein.  Benton,  long 
and  flabby  and  lukewarm,  whose  breath  always  re 
minded  Q  of  the  exhalation  of  a  steam  radiator, 
meant  to  marry  Sophie.  She  would  walk  out  of  her 
enchantment  into  Benton's  slack  and  absorbent  em 
brace  — 

"You  are  willing,"  Mary  had  asked,  "to  take  the 
responsibility  of  bringing  these  two  people  together?  " 

The  voices  in  the  room  had  altogether  stopped. 
Q 's  fancy  summoned  pictures.  He  saw  Sophie  crum 
pled  into  a  chair,  Laurie  stroking  her  cold  hands, 
murmuring  out  his  meaningless  remorse,  his  worse 
than  useless  consolation.  The  picture  was  different 
from  the  truth,  for,  though  Sophie  had  thrown  her 
self  down  by  his  bed  and  had  smothered  her  weeping 
in  her  arms,  Laurie  was  attempting  no  consolation, 
expressing  no  remorse.  He  was  sitting  in  Q's  chair, 
the  width  of  the  room  away,  his  hands  between  his 
knees,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  carpet. 

After  an  interminable  while,  "Stop  crying,  my 
dear,"  said  Laurie,  apparently  to  the  carpet;  "I  see 
now  that  it  won't  do." 

He  pulled  a  long  and  shaken  breath,  leaned  slowly 
back  in  his  chair  and  began  to  fill  his  pipe.  He  was 


Diplomacy  165 


thinking,  it  might  be  imagined,  vividly.  His  brown, 
nervous  eyes  were  seeing  consequences.  This  was 
evidently  a  man  at  once  intellectually  cool  and  emo 
tionally  hot,  an  adventurer  by  instinct,  a  conserva 
tive  by  conviction,  romantic  in  feeling  and  cynic  in 
philosophy,  a  gifted  and  tormented  being  for  whom 
life  would  be  forever  thorned.  The  inertia  of  a  father 
who  decided  nothing  until  fate  gave  him  some  ignoble 
lead,  had  left  unused,  perhaps,  all  this  flame  and 
swiftness,  all  this  unhurried  steel  decision,  to  afflict 
the  delicate  organism  of  the  son.  Laurie  had  been 
trapped,  not  only  by  circumstances  but  by  his  nature. 
Now  he  was  at  work,  one  half  fighting  the  other,  try 
ing  to  release  his  heart  from  the  toils  and  at  the  same 
time  to  clear  his  honor  of  an  obligation.  "I  did  n't 
know  until  I  heard  your  step  outside  the  door,  Sophie, 
that  these  last  three  horrible  years  have  just  made  no 
difference  at  all.  I  Ve  been  deceiving  myself." 

"I  knew." 

She  had  lifted  her  head  from  her  arms  and,  still 
kneeling,  was  looking  at  him  across  the  narrow  white 
counterpane.  It  was  a  beaten  face,  deep-eyed.  Pain 
had  released  every  last  secret  of  its  beauty. 

Laurie's  brain  looked  at  it  through  the  tumult  of 
his  blood. 

"I'd  forgotten  that  I  loved  you."  He  laughed 
softly.  "Is  n't  that  queer  —  so  —  Sophie  —  to  for 
get—?" 

"I  knew  you'd  only  to  see  me  —  men  are  like 
that!" 

His  face  narrowed  into  keenness. 


166 "Q" 

"Oh,  no,"  she  professed  instantly,  "it  was  n't  my 
plan.  It  was  his  —  Q's.  I  told  him  —  you  '11  have  to 
forgive  me  for  that,  because  I  could  n't  help  it.  I  had 
to  tell  him  what  I  'd  been  going  through.  Laurie,  he 's 
the  only  one  I've  told.  You  don't  know  Q!  These 
three  years  have  been  awful  long  —  and  hard  —  for 
me." 

"I  know."  Laurie  bit  in  under  his  lip,  for  she  hurt 
him. 

"But  you  are  going  to  marry  some  one  else,"  So 
phie  faltered,  touching  the  words  with  a  voice  that 
shrank  from  them. 

"No.  That's  what  I'm  trying  to  tell  you.  I  see 
now  that  I  can't.  Sophie,  we're  back  where  we  were 
three  years  ago  —  that 's  all.  It 's  to  do  all  over  again, 
only  in  the  meantime,  trying  to  free  myself  from  you, 
I've  hurt  somebody  else." 

She  stood  up  slowly.   "I  see.  Poor  Laurie!" 

This  bent  him,  a  hand  over  his  eyes. 

"Don't!  Don't  you  say  that!" 

She  came  around  the  bed,  knelt  beside  him  and  put 
her  long  arms  about  him. 

"You  are  not  to  be  unhappy  —  you  are  not.  Lau 
rie,"  with  a  soft  sudden  little  cry,  "you  are  getting 
gray!" 

"Am  I?"  He  laughed  shakily,  drawing  himself 
away.  "I  deserve  to  be.  I'd  better  go.  I  can't  stand 
much  more  of  this." 

She  brightened  as  if  fire  had  come  close  to  her. 
"Oh,  no.  Must  you?  Let  me  —  oh,  please,  Laurie, 
let  me  just  be  near  you  for  a  little  while.  I  won't 


Diplomacy  167 


speak  to  you,  I  won't  touch  you,  I  won't  even  look  at 
you.  I  want  to  be  near  you.  It  rests  me,  I  feel  all  the 
time  now  —  so  tired." 

She  was  still  kneeling  beside  his  chair  and  she  sank 
back  on  her  heels,  and  folded  her  hands  and  looked 
up  at  him  with  a  large,  simple,  childlike  look,  as 
though  her  eyes  fed  upon  him. 

He  smiled  faintly  and  sat  down,  holding  out  his 
arms.  She  crept  into  them  and  he  held  her  like  a 
child,  and  presently  their  lips  met.  So  they  stayed 
together,  silent,  in  happiness  and  in  pain;  nothing 
more  exquisite  in  sensation,  perhaps,  than  what  life 
gave  then  with  its  generous  taloned  hands.  It  was 
Sophie  that  moved  first.  She  was  suddenly  afraid. 
They  found  themselves  standing  the  room  apart, 
white-faced,  fast-breathing.  Laurie  then  walked 
rapidly  across  the  room,  picking  up  his  bag  and  hat, 
and  went  out.  He  did  not  so  much  as  look  at  her 
again,  and  started  blindly  down  the  stairs. 

It  was  no  movement  on  Q's  part  that  caught  his 
attention,  perhaps  it  was  only  the  intentness  of  the 
Westerner's  silence,  but,  half  a  flight  down,  Laurie 
did  look  up  and  saw  Q,  gripping  the  balustrade  above 
him. 

Laurie  hesitated.  Q's  eyes  said,  "You  are  not 
agoin'  to  quit  her,  are  you?"  but,  for  the  moment, 
never  guessing  how  their  look  would  haunt  and 
fashion  him  to  its  desire,  they  only  tightened  his 
resolve.  He  smiled  coldly  and  faintly,  nodded  his 
head  and  went  rapidly  down  the  steps. 

Q  wandered  restlessly  up  and  down  the  faded 


168 "Q" 

scarlet  hallway;  its  stuffiness  oppressed  his  lungs  and 
spirit.  He  began  to  be  afraid  of  Sophie's  long  silence 
in  his  room.  A  slovenly  maid  went  by  and  stared  at 
him  wonderingly.  A  sleek,  handsome,  impudent- 
eyed  drummer  passed  him,  whistling,  gave  him  a 
mocking  scrutiny  before  he  stepped  into  the  elevator. 
Q  remembered  that  he  had  seen  this  young  man 
pursuing  Sophie  with  an  ingratiating  address.  "That 
feller,"  Q  commented  automatically,  "has  a  mean 
mouth  and  a  cold  eye."  Almost  as  automatically  he 
deduced  a  formula,  "Some  folks  has  to  laugh  mean, 
thataway,  so's  to  get  even  with  God." 

The  elevator  dropped  out  of  sight  with  its  uncon 
scious  victim  of  analysis  and,  a  moment  later,  Sophie 
stumbled  out  of  the  door  of  Room  90.  She  looked 
broken  and  dulled;  she  crept  out  of  sight,  her  steps 
noiseless  on  the  faded  crimson  carpet. 

Q,  who  had  brought  this  misery  about  and  could 
not  understand  its  reason,  quirted  his  heart  with 
indignation  and  outraged  sympathies. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  MOON 

THE  morning  after  that  August  day  on  which  Kin- 
wydden  had  so  signally  failed  to  recommend  himself 
either  to  his  school-mistress  or  to  the  mistress  of  his 
heart,  he  had  sat  down  and  written  a  letter  to  Mary. 
It  was  written  in  the  dry,  tight-strung  weariness  that 
follows  a  sleepless  night,  for,  true  to  his  own  predic 
tion,  the  phrases  Heloise  had  used  to  punish  him  for 
the  foolhardiness  of  his  deliberately  incited  runaway, 
had  kept  him  tossing  and  swearing  in  a  rumpled  bed. 
And  yet,  it  was  not  so  much  the  words  that  hurt  as  it 
was  their  emphasis,  the  deliberate  insolence  of  beloved 
eyes  and  lips.  He  did  not  know  how  to  name  it, 
but,  free  man  that  he  was,  he  felt  the  insult  of  it  in 
every  fiber  of  him.  The  aristocrat  to  the  canaille  — 
he  would  not  have  so  worded  the  manner  of  her  wrath, 
but,  when  a  man  strikes  with  a  whip  rather  than  with 
a  fist,  so  does  he  smite  as  Heloise  had  smitten  him, 
and  even  from  her  justifiable  anger,  this  was  not  what 
his  love  deserved;  it  was  surely  not  what  his  love  de 
served. 

DEAR  Miss  MARY  [Q  had  written  that  morning  with  ex 
ceeding  carefulness  and  very  bitter  gravity],  I  am  going  to 
give  you  a  holiday  from  teaching  me  and  I  am  going  to  give 
myself  a  holiday  from  A  B  C.  I  feel  like  I  would  go  loco  if 
I  did  n't  do  some  work  with  my  hands.  My  case  is  like  the 
man  with  a  weak  head  and  a  strong  back.  I  am  going  down 
to  the  Mills  to  learn  something  of  the  trade.  A  man  can 


170 "Q" 

never  tell  when  such  things  are  going  to  turn  out  useful  to 
him ;  in  the  sort  of  life  I  lead  I  have  put  ray  hand  to  a  many 
kinds  of  work  and  making  carpets  ought  to  come  in  useful 
when  the  free  land  is  all  took  up  and  built  over  with  two- 
story  houses.  I  will  bunk  with  a  working-man  who  is  a 
friend  of  mine.  He  has  made  me  a  member  of  his  club  so  I 
won't  be  lonesome.  Tell  your  father  I  will  meet  him  eve 
nings  as  per  usual,  and  after  five  days  I  will  be  back  at  my 
copy-book  again  and  working  out  how  many  miles  per  day 
the  man  walked  that  walked  117  miles  in  a  week  going  one 
mile  more  each  day  than  he  did  the  day  before.  It  will  be 
Friday  when  I  come  back,  for  Thursday  afternoon  is  when 
Dr.  Laurie  Sales  is  coming  up  to  see  me  here  at  the  hotel. 
Have  you  thought  any  about  that  Sophie  girl? 

Yours  respectfully 

Q. 

For  five  days  Q  had  kept  himself  at  the  Mills  grind 
ing  out  from  his  heart  the  memory  of  Heloise  and  fol 
lowing  the  tracking  impulse  of  his  hatred.  There  was 
much  valuable  information  to  be  gathered  concerning 
William  Sales 's  career  in  and  about  the  Mills.  Q 
learned  the  history  of  the  lawsuit  that,  thanks  to  Miss 
Selda's  skillful  New  York  lawyer,  failed;  he  learned 
stories  of  the  Hospital,  and  he  ingratiated  himself,  by 
means  of  an  injured  finger,  with  Dr.  Sales's  favorite 
nurse,  who  was  the  head  nurse  and  had  held  the  posi 
tion  against  all  comers.  For  a  few  months,  about 
three  years  before,  it  appeared  there  had  been  an 
upheaval  at  the  Mills  Hospital,  under  the  brief  intru 
sion  of  young  Dr.  Ellison,  but  there  had  risen  very 
shortly  the  scandal  that  had  been  used  against  him  by 
Miss  Selda  and  through  which  he  had  been  forced  to 
leave  the  place.  Q  discovered  there  was  a  wide  vari- 


A  Message  from  the  Moon  171 

ety  of  opinion  concerning  the  responsibility  for  this 
particular  scandal  —  an  operation  that  had  failed. 
These  investigations  had  kept  Q  from  thinking  too 
much  about  Heloise.  He  would  not  go  to  her  again, 
he  swore,  until  she  sent  for  him;  his  will  had  set  itself 
like  iron  to  conquer  hers  —  all  softness  of  feeling 
seemed  to  have  been  lashed  out  of  his  heart.  He  had 
eased  it  by  a  frank  homesickness  for  Mary.  It  was 
for  her  that  he  allowed  himself  to  hunger.  His  missing 
of  her  had  become  by  the  fifth  day  of  exile  a  joyous 
expectation.  He  was  impatient  to  be  reconciled  to 
her;  he  would  not  let  her  stay  angry  with  him;  he 
would  coax  back  the  smile  and  the  ruddy  brightness 
to  her  face.  He  remembered  that  after  that  last  les 
son  she  had  looked  pitifully  white  and  tired. 

By  the  time  Q  stood  on  the  small  shabby  familiar 
porch  he  was  as  happily  excited  as  a  boy.  His  eyes 
were  deep  with  their  anticipation.  When  Mary 
opened  the  door,  it  was  all  he  could  do  not  to  catch 
her  up  in  his  arms.  He  laughed  to  hide  the  intensity 
of  his  delight. 

"I've  come  back,  like  the  boy  that  plays  hooky  — 
kind  of  scared,"  he  said.  "What  are  you  agoin'  to  do 
tome?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Mary. 

She  had  smiled  very  faintly  in  response  to  the  daz 
zling  illumination  of  his  smile  and  was  now  leading 
him  listlessly  along  the  little  hall. 

Q's  heart  took  a  sudden  surprising  downward 
swoop.  He  dropped  his  books  on  the  table  and  looked 
down  at  her. 


172 "Q" 

"You  were  right,"  he  said  quickly.  "I  want  to  tell 
you  before  we  get  to  work  —  and,  Miss  Mary,  I  am 
going  to  work  awfully  hard,  you're  sure  going  to  be 
pleased  with  me  —  that  you  were  right  as  to  the 
foolishness  of  meddling.  I  will  never  do  it  no  more." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  for  the  first  time.  "You 
mean  —  Laurie  Sales  and  Sophie?  Oh,  I  dare  say  you 
are  quite  right  about  that.  I  thought  it  over  after 
wards.  Happiness  —  to  get  people  their  happiness  — 
is  almost  a  duty.  It  must  be  right  to  try  for  that." 

She  took  her  place  opposite  him,  but  she  was  no 
longer  the  eager,  candid  little  teacher.  He  would 
hardly  have  known  her.  She  sat,  stooping  a  little; 
looked  away  from  him  with  veiled  eyes.  Even  her  hair 
had  lost  some  of  its  ruddy  sparkle. 

Q  pressed  his  lips  tight  and,  covertly  observing  her, 
opened  his  book.  He  had  been  promoted  to  a  simpli 
fied  edition  of  ^Esop's  Fables  and  he  began  where  he 
had  left  off. 

"The  wind  blew  but  the  traveler  only  drew  his 
cloak  closer  about  him  — " 

"Miss  Mary,"  he  said  sharply,  "y°u  l°°k  like  you 
had  lost  a  friend." 

At  that  she  glanced  over  at  him  quickly.  After  a 
second,  "I  have,"  she  said. 

"  You  don't  mean  "  —  Q's  voice  was  uncertain  with 
dread  —  "  that  you  have  quit  being  a  friend  to  me?  " 

"Oh,  no!"  Her  color  rose  in  a  flood  that  ought  to 
have  betrayed  her  to  him,  only  that  he  was  leagues 
from  the  gateway  to  such  understanding. 

He  breathed  freely  again.  "But  you've  lost  — 
some  other  friend?" 


A  Message  from  the  Moon  173 

She  nodded  and  frowned  a  little.  "Let's  don't  talk 
about  it,  Q.  I  've  had  an  anxious  time.  Things  have 
been  bothering  me.  I  believe  it's  done  me  good  al 
ready  to  see  you.  You  blow  everything  about  like  a 
strong  wind.  Tell  me  —  like  the  cows,  I'm  curious  — 
was  n't  it  a  success,  your  plot  for  Sophie?  " 

"No,  ma'am  —  not  anything  like  that.  I  made  a 
fool  of  myself  and  it  don't  bear  talkin'  of.  To-day 
Sophie  looks  about  like  you  do  —  only  she's  lost  a 
lover,  which  hits  harder." 

Mary  smiled  one  of  those  complex  smiles  of  hers 
that  twisted  into  one  expression  so  many  strands  of 
quick  emotion. 

"They  met  —  Laurie  and  Sophie?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  in  my  room.  But  he  has  quit  her 
again.  And  I  reckon  this  time  it's  for  good  and  ever, 
which  makes  it  worse 'n  it  was  for  the  poor  gel.  Hon 
est,  it  scares  me  —  she  looks  so  downed  and  desp'rit 
.  .  .  sort  of  like  an  easy  victim  for  any  feller.  Them 
drummers  hangin'  'round.  Whenever  I  think  about 
her  I  'd  like  some  one  to  take  me  out  and  beat  me  up. 
I  was  almighty  sure  of  myself,  Miss  Mary,  like  you 
said  I  was,  but  now  I  ain't.  I  think  it's  likely  I'll 
never  be  so  sure  of  myself  again.  Knowin'  bosses, 
I  hev  discovered,  ain't  so  much  of  a  help  in  knowin* 
people.  Hosses  hev  got  so  much  more  sense.  You  can 
figger  on  what  they  will  be  likely  to  do.  I'm  plumb 
discouraged  with  the  things  folks  do.  I  reckon  I'd 
better  quit  tryin'  to  run  the  earth.  It  ain't  rightly 
my  corral." 

Mary  was  smiling,  a  doubtful  brightness  returning 


174 "Q" 

to  her  face.  "I  don't  know.  Perhaps  you'd  run  it 
rather  well.  Tell  me  about  the  Mills.  Did  you  enjoy 
making  carpets?" 

She  fancied  that  his  real  motive  had  been  to  collect 
some  money  and,  because  of  the  price  he  had  paid  for 
his  lessons,  this  distressed  her.  She  was  quite  desper 
ately  bent,  these  days,  upon  collecting  money  herself, 
but,  on  his  account,  she  felt  compunction. 

"Yes,  ma'am.  It's  a  right  interesting  process." 
He  described  it  to  her,  at  some  length,  vividly,  and 
gave  her  a  picture  of  his  life  —  that  part  of  it  discon 
nected  from  his  more  serious  pursuit. 

"And  they  paid  you  well?" 

"Fair  wages  —  of  course  my  labor  wasn't  what 
you'd  call  skilled.  Miss  Grinscoombe  don't  pay  so 
high  as  some  of  the  mill-owners.  If  she  did  she  'd  get  a 
better  type  of  workman  and  her  carpets  would  n't 
suffer  none.  I'd  like  to  talk  it  over  with  her,  if  she 
was  n't  bound  on  the  north,  south,  east,  and  west  by 
Dr.  Sales." 

"What  are  you  saying,  Q?" 

"That's  just  a  notion  of  mine,  Miss  Mary.  He's  a 
dangerous  sort  of  feller  —  doc." 

Mary  was  making  absent  hieroglyphics  with  her 
pencil.  She  was  frowning,  and  flushed. 

"What  makes  you  think  anything  so  —  strange  as 
that?" 

Q  looked  at  her  with  all  his  keenness.  He  thought 
a,  minute  before  he  spoke.  "  Last  time  we  was  talkin' 
of  doc,"  he  drawled,  "you  would  n't  hev  swallowed 
so  easy-like  what  I  said  jest  now.  Since  I  was  last 


A  Message  from  the  Moon  175 

here,  Miss  Mary,  you  hev  been  findin'  doc  out  some, 
have  n't  you?  Ain't  he  maybe  the  friend  you  lost? 
Was  n't  it  me  that  begun  to  put  you  wise  to  him?" 

Mary  prudently  answered  only  his  last  question. 
"No  —  you  amazing  creature,  it  was  not."  She  con 
sidered  even  this  answer  before  she  made  it,  still  draw 
ing  little  squares  and  circles,  but  looking  him  in  the 
face  with  the  eyes  of  her  perplexity.  "  You  know  what 
it  is  to  be  bothered  about  money,  don't  you?" 

"No,  ma'am.  But  I  know  right  well  what  it  is  to 
be  bothered  about  —  no  money.  Though  I  can't  say 
it  ever  did  bother  me  a  lot  —  not  havin'  any.  It 
don't,  you  know,  if  you  can  work  with  your  hands." 

"It  bothers  me,"  said  Mary,  "dreadfully.  And  I 
hate  to  think  what  a  preposterous  sum  I'm  charging 
you  for  this  education  of  yours." 

"That's  a  real  word,  Miss  Mary  —  pre-post-er-ous. 
Let  me  put  my  brand  on  it,  will  you?  It  means  — " 

"Out  of  all  reason,"  Mary  hazarded. 

"Well,  that  ain't  the  truth.  Anyways,  even  if  it 
was,  I  would  n't  let  it  give  you  any  sufferin'.  I  've  got 
the  price  of  my  education  laid  by.  Miss  Mary,  this  is 
the  first  time  in  my  life  I  hev  ever  bothered  about 
money.  It's  the  first  time  I've  ever  had  the  chanct." 

"How  did  you  make  the  price  of  your  education, 
Q?  Guiding?" 

"No,  ma'am.  It  was  wished  onto  me,  like  my 
name."  He  lifted  his  eyes  to  her  with  a  curious  wist- 
fulness.  "Miss  Mary,"  he  said,  "I  am  awful  rich." 

Mary  wondered  why  her  heart  stood  still.  Then 
she  understood  and  was  angry  with  herself.  If  Q  were 


176 "Q" 

really  "awful  rich,"  might  not  the  towers  and  walls  of 
Grinscoombery,  which  she  fancied  impregnable  to  his 
knight-errantry,  be  shaken  before  his  lance?  A  great 
fortune  —  that  would  go  far  toward  softening  the 
hardness  of  Miss  Selda's  opposition,  of  Heloise's 
young  worldliness.  An  ungrammatical  millionaire 
may  be  forgiven  where  an  ungrammatical  cowboy  re 
mains  forever  amongst  the  unforgivable.  But  how 
could  a  generous  heart  sink  at  knowing  that  Q  had  a 
chance  of  winning  his  desire?  Mary  convicted  herself 
and  passed  judgment.  Then  with  a  smile  more  win 
ning  than  she  could  have  imagined,  she  held  out  her 
hand  across  the  table  to  Q. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "I  am  so  glad'9 

His  fingers  fastened  down  over  hers  and  enveloped 
them  in  warmth  and  strength  and  comfort. 

"It  don't  do  me  much  good,  Miss  Mary,  except  to 
make  me  hanker  after  the  moon,  which  is  the  sort 
of  thing  a  man  can't  buy." 

"Oh,"  she  suggested,  "can't  he?  "  Then,  seeing  his 
flush,  she  was  ashamed.  "Of  course,  in  a  sense,  not," 
she  hurriedly  amended,  drawing  away  her  hand, 
"but,  amongst  people  that  have  always  had  wealth 
and  can't  imagine  being  without  it,  a  fortune  is  bound 
to  count,  Q." 

He  had  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  his  face  was 
masked  and  rather  pale.  He  had  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
her  in  the  through-gazing  fashion  that  distinguished 
them,  and  Mary  felt  that  all  her  motives  and  impulses 
were  bitterly  exposed. 

"Please  go  on  with  your  lessons,  Q,"  she  cried  out 
an  instant  later. 


A  Message  from  the  Moon  177 

"Just  a  minute,  ma'am.  You  said  you  was  both- 
erin'  about  money.  If  you  was  a  right  sensible  young 
woman,  you  would  n't  be  doin'  any  more  of  that." 

"Why  not?"  Mary  asked  blankly,  then  colored  hot 
and  high. 

"When  a  partner  of  mine  has  a  fortune,  I  don't 
never  do  no  botherin'  —  gel." 

"Q —  you  are  simply  absurd.  Go  on  with  your 
lessons,  please,  or  I'll  give  you  a  bad  mark." 

"To  take  home  to  Benton  —  eh?" 

"No  —  to  take  home  to  Heloise.  Is  she  interested 
in  your  education,  Q?" 

In  her  effort  to  escape  from  her  embarrassment, 
Mary  had  taken  the  first  conversational  opening  her 
mind  suggested  to  her,  and  dashed  into  a  subject 
which  the  delicacy  of  her  sympathy  had  hitherto  kept 
sacred. 

"Not  so's  you'd  notice  it,"  returned  Q  dryly  and 
took  up  his  book. 

In  the  midst  of  his  reading,  the  telephone  bell  rang 
and  Mary,  answering  it,  turned  to  her  pupil  with  one 
of  her  waggish  looks.  "Some  one  to  speak  to  you," 
she  said  —  "a  message  from  the  moon." 

He  was  white  when  he  stood  up  and  moved  to  the 
instrument  like  a  sleep-walker.  In  his  ear  came  the 
swift,  imperious  voice  that  had  so  injured  him. 

"Q  —  can  you  come  out  this  afternoon  —  at  four 
o'clock?  —  it's  important." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Where  have  you  been  —  these  days?" 

"Laborin'  with  my  hands  to  ease  my  heart,"  said 
Q,  unsmiling. 


178 "Q" 

"How  queer.   You'll  come,  then?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"Surely?" 

"Ain'tltellin'youso?" 

"I  don't  know,  Q,  what  may  happen  to  me  if  you 
don't  come." 

"Nothin'  is  agoin'  to  happen  to  you,  then." 

"Good-bye." 

Her  voice  in  all  the  brief  sentences  had  been  a  trifle 
breathless,  abstracted.  She  was  not  flirting,  nor  tor 
menting,  nor  laughing.  She  was  afraid.  He  knew 
that  in  all  his  nerves.  He  strode  back  to  his  lessons 
and  Mary  felt  that  she  was  entirely  forgotten.  Her 
pupil  stumbled  absently  through  arithmetic  lesson 
and  history  lesson  and  went  away  from  her  as  though 
the  mind  of  Heloise  had  put  some  sort  of  enchant 
ment  on  his  steps. 

Mary,  when  he  had  gone,  walked  about  the  room 
in  a  dry-eyed  misery  of  anger  and  hurt  pride;  hating 
herself,  and  her  life,  and  her  love.  When  her  little 
father  came,  fifteen  minutes  later,  he  dropped  his 
books  hastily  on  the  nearest  chair,  came  to  her  and 
held  out  his  arms.  Mary  crept  close  to  him,  put  her 
head  on  his  shoulder,  and  wept. 

They  sat  in  the  distended  wicker  chair,  the  little 
father  stroking  her  and  murmuring  comfort.  At  last 
they  spoke  of  Q  and  of  Dr.  Sales  and  of  the  debt. 
Presently  their  hearts  were  greatly  eased;  they  could 
laugh  at  each  other;  they  could  even  begin  to  make 
plans. 

"I'll  have  to  try  very  determinedly,  Mary,  to  turn 


A  Message  from  the  Moon  179 

my  pen  to  profit.  I  ought  long  ago  to  have  made  such 
an  effort." 

Mary  hid  her  pathetic  smile.  She  knew  so  well  that 
his  pen  would  prove  as  impotent  a  gold-digger  as 
could  well  be  fashioned,  but  she  gallantly  supported 
his  determination  and  together  they  outlined  a  pos 
sible  series  of  articles  on  education,  concerning  the 
ultimate  success  of  which  they  managed  to  convince 
themselves  quite  emphatically.  Lunch-time  was 
completely  forgotten  and  by  the  tea-hour  they  were 
busy,  brisk,  soberly  cheerful  people  —  Mary  pour 
ing  tea  with  steadiness,  though  her  eyes  still  showed 
traces  of  her  stormy  weeping. 

Out  in  the  garden  of  Grinscoombe  Manor,  Heloise 
too  was  pouring  tea,  iced  tea  from  an  enormous  silver 
pitcher.  As  she  poured  it  the  ice  rattled  because  her 
hand  was  shaking.  A  tiger  cub  is  a  fascinating  pet, 
subtle,  beautiful,  and  astonishing.  But  as  it  grows 
from  cub -hood  and  its  tiger  nature  strengthens  in 
throat  and  talons,  the  small  f  earf  ulness  that  made  it  a 
delight  increases  to  something  that  is  not  a  delight  at 
all.  Excitement  was  a  necessity  to  Lelo's  restless  and 
unsatisfied  temperament.  Ferdinand,  for  the  past 
few  months,  had  increasingly  supplied  her  with  the 
stimulant.  She  had  enjoyed  playing  with  his  impa 
tience,  holding  out  a  morsel  and  snatching  it  away 
again,  letting  her  eyes  promise  what  her  hands  and 
lips  withheld,  playing,  in  fact,  a  game  as  old  as  sex,  in 
which  the  centuries  have  made  women  more  and  more 
proficient,  men  more  and  more  practiced  to  enjoy. 


180 "Q" 

Given  emotional  leisure,  and  almost  any  woman  may 
become  a  Cleopatra  and  any  man  a  Don  Juan.  The 
old  sex  channels  are  worn  so  deep  in  consciousness, 
deeper  than  any  recent  scribblings  of  religion,  moral 
ity,  or  wisdom,  it  requires  only  a  slight  diversion  to 
send  the  floods  running  deep  and  free.  Heloise  had 
had  leisure  and  a  wound;  she  was  dangerous.  Ferdi 
nand  was  the  male  counterpart  of  her  condition.  He 
was  vulnerable  and  impatient,  thwarted,  sufficiently 
uncertain  and  sufficiently  masterful.  Heloise's  dar 
ing  increased  hand  in  hand  with  her  alarm.  So  far  she 
had  kept  her  balance,  but  lately  it  had  been  with  in 
creasing  difficulty.  The  artificial  supremacy  of  girl 
hood  was  imperiled,  because  Ferdinand's  imperious 
passions,  always  his  spoiled  children,  were  growing 
like  the  talons  of  the  baby  tiger.  When  she  was  safely 
out  of  his  sight,  Heloise  would  laugh  at  her  nerves,  but 
no  sooner  did  his  sultry  blue  eyes  fall  to  devouring 
her  again  than  fear,  excitement,  weakness  shook  her. 
After  her  failure  to  meet  him  at  the  club-house  on  the 
afternoon  of  Q's  deliberately  excited  runaway,  Ferdi 
nand  had  lost  no  time  in  flinging  himself  down  before 
his  steering-wheel  and  eating  up  twelve  miles  of 
heated  concrete  to  demand  from  her  an  explanation. 
He  had  been  in  the  gold  reception-room  when  He 
loise  had  run  upstairs  —  had  just,  in  fact,  been  giving 
a  message  to  the  footman;  and,  seeing  her  hurry  past 
the  door,  he  had  begun  to  fume,  to  pull  at  his  tiny 
blond  mustaches,  and  to  prowl  about  the  room  like 
some  large,  graceful,  angry  animal.  Heloise  had 
taken  time  to  rearrange  her  golden  helmet.  She  knew 


A  Message  from  the  Moon  181 

that  he  was  down  there  fuming,  and  she  began  to  be 
nervous.  She  had  presented  to  him,  however,  be 
tween  the  long  gold  curtains,  when  he  turned  at  the 
sound  of  her  coming,  a  figure  of  such  cool  green  slim- 
ness  and  snow-whiteness  that  a  characteristic  com 
pliment  had  sprung  past  his  anger  to  his  lips. 

"You  look  like  a  mint  julep,  Lelo  —  hanged  if  you 
don't  —  some  heavenly  cool  green  fragrant  drink  in 
a  tall  glass  —  makes  a  man's  throat  tingle  to  look  at 
you!"  Then,  having  her  smile,  he  returned  deliber 
ately  to  his  humor.  "So  you  chose  to  keep  me  wait 
ing  this  afternoon !  Was  n't  it  four  o'clock  that  you 
said  you'd  be  at  the  club?  It's  half-past  six  now  —  " 
Pie  turned  a  sullen  eye  to  the  gold-faced  clock  below 
Sir  Sydney  Grinscoombe. 

"I've  been  run  away  with  in  the  interval,"  said 
Heloise,  "by  a  wild  and  woolly  Westerner,"  and  with 
that,  staggering  her  with  its  sudden  fury,  his  temper 
had  broken.  'He  had  stormed,  thick-voiced,  pale- 
lipped,  about  the  fragile  room,  so  used  to  reticence; 
he  had  damned  Q;  he  had  told  her  his  opinion  of  her 
methods.  "Damn  cruel,  teasing,  selfish  —  "  Heloise, 
all  white,  her  narrowed  eyes  as  green  as  her  dress,  had 
pushed  him  away  at  the  end,  her  two  slim  hands 
planted  against  his  chest,  which,  under  its  silken 
shirt,  had  scorched  her  palms  so  that,  that  night,  she 
tried  to  rub  the  memory  away  against  her  cool  bed- 
linen.  She  did  not  know,  she  had  told  him,  how  he 
had  dared  to  come  so  close  to  her,  to  touch  her  — 

"I've  —  touched  you  before,"  he  had  stammered; 
"better  take  your  hands  off  me —  "  And,  plucking 


182 "Q" 

them  from  him,  he  had  crumpled  them  both  pain 
fully  into  one  of  his,  had  put  his  arm  close  about  her, 
had  held  the  hands  to  his  mouth.  Heloise,  for  the 
first  time,  had  realized  a  man's  bodily  strength.  For 
a  minute  she  could  not  so  much  as  get  breath  into  the 
scant  space  he  had  left  her  in  a  hot,  misty,  whirling 
world.  She  had  gasped  "Aunt  Selda ! "  and  had  found 
herself  free.  Ferdinand  was  moving  backwards  away 
from  her;  his  eyes  looked  bruised. 

"Next  time,"  he  had  mumbled  with  his  insolent, 
clumsy  lips,  "I'll  get  some  satisfaction  from  you,  you 
white  witch!" 

Heloise  had  sat  weakly  down  in  one  of  the  small, 
gilded  chairs.  Her  wrists  had  felt  emptied  of  blood. 
It  had  been  terrible,  and  exciting,  more  exciting  than 
Q's  game  with  death.  He  was  wrong  —  it  might  be 
more  healthful  and  more  honest,  but  as  a  galloping 
incentive  to  quick  breath  there  was  no  potency  in  it 
to  compare  with  this  other  game.  Aunt  Selda  had 
come  in  slowly;  she  had  passed  Ferdinand,  it  seemed, 
in  the  hall. 

"I  hope  you've  sent  that  man  away  for  good, 
Heloise,"  she  had  said. 

"Gracious,  no!"  Heloise  had  laughed,  looking  com 
posure  from  serene,  dissembling  young  eyes,  "he  is 
the  delight  of  my  life,  Aunt  Selda.  He  '11  be  back  soon 
and  I  '11  teach  him  his  lesson.  I  am  getting  to  be  a  reg 
ular  lion-tamer." 

Aunt  Selda  had  looked  at  her,  several  phrases  on 
her  tongue,  but  she  had  restrained  it  from  pronounce 
ment.  Aunt  Selda  understood  her  niece. 


A  Message  from  the  Moon  183 

Now,  on  the  Friday  afternoon,  in  the  garden  under 
a  striped  canvas  umbrella,  a  wicker  table  between  her 
and  her  visitor,  Heloise  found  that  she  could  not  com 
mand  the  shaking  of  her  body.  That  morning,  Fer 
dinand  had  announced  his  coming  for  tea  and  had 
"hung  up."  All  day,  Heloise  had  alternated  between 
self-assurance  and  cold  fear.  It  was  her  cold  fear  that 
had  sent  the  S.O.S.  to  Q  and  spoiled  his  history  lesson. 
Afterwards,  she  had  wished  she  had  n't  sent  for  him, 
but  not  to  the  point  of  countermanding  orders.  No, 
on  the  whole,  she  had  told  herself,  as  she  led  Ferdi 
nand  along  a  box-hedged  path  to  the  garden  table, 
she  was  glad  that  Q  was  on  his  way;  he  would  by  now 
have  left  the  hotel  .  . 

"Sit  down  in  that  chair,  Ferdy,"  she  said,  "and 
keep  there."  She  smiled  at  him  with  level  eyes. 

Ferdy  obediently  flung  himself  down  in  the  ap 
pointed  place.  He  looked  sullen  and  inert,  as  though 
the  heat  of  the  day  had  taken  some  of  the  vigor  out 
of  him.  The  tiger  was  dull;  his  eyes  had  a  drugged, 
sleepy  expression.  But  Heloise's  instinct  set  her  to 
shaking  while  she  reassured  herself. 

"I  hope  you're  going  to  apologize,  Ferdy,  for  your 
absurd  exhibition  last  week.  You  are  a  spoiled  child, 
if  ever  there  was  one.  '  Take  this  cup  and  drink  it  up ' 
—  as  the  cross-patch  rhyme  says,  then  make  me  a 
nice  respectful  little  speech  and  maybe  I'll  forgive 
you." 

He  took  the  tall  glass  silently  in  his  big,  white, 
steady  hand  and,  looking  down  at  her  hand,  he 
smiled  slowly  so  that  she  could  see  the  attractive  line 
of  his  even  white  teeth. 


184  "Q" 

"  What  are  you  shaking  for?  "  he  asked  her  and  sat, 
staring  down,  and  smiling. 

Heloise  leaned  back  and  took  up  a  work-bag  she 
had  carried  with  her.  She  laughed.  "Do  you  think 
it's  because  I'm  afraid  of  you,  Ferdy?" 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  know  I'm  mad  about  you, 
don't  you?  And  you  know  you've  spent  the  last  six 
months  driving  me  mad,  don't  you?  You  know  what 
my  wife  does  to  me  at  home,  don't  you?  And  you 
know  what  sort  of  man  I  am,  don't  you?  I  think 
you  Ve  got  some  reason  to  be  afraid  of  me  —  un 
less  —  " 

With  that,  slowly,  ponderously,  he  looked  up  and 
the  smile  gradually  left  his  lips.  They  sat  and  stared 
at  each  other,  the  thunder  of  quick  pulses  in  their 
ears. 

"Unless  — ?"  Heloise  found  herself  saying. 

Ferdinand's  face  changed  violently  and  he  got  to 
his  feet. 

"For  God's  sake,"  he  said,  "send  that  fool  away!" 

Heloise  turned  and  could  have  heartily  echoed  his 
curse.  Q  was  coming  along  between  the  hedges,  tall 
and  grim  and  graceful.  She  wished  him  a  thousand 
miles  away.  She  knew  now  that  to  satisfy  her  craving 
for  experience,  she  must  play  out  this  Ferdy  game  to 
the  last  dangerous  move.  Q's  coming  was  a  postpone 
ment,  perhaps  a  respite.  She  motioned  soothingly  to 
Ferdy. 

"I  sent  for  him  on  purpose,"  she  said,  at  which  he 
prowled  back  to  his  place  and  drained  his  glass  at  one 
breathless  draught. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WHIP  HAND 

WHILE  Ferdy  drained  his  glass,  Miss  Selda  Grins- 
coombe,  in  the  very  large,  well-ordered  bedroom  that 
had  been  her  father's  and  mother's,  moved  slowly 
about,  taking  off  her  gloves  and  hat  and  changing 
from  black  silk  blouse  and  skirt  to  a  sheer  gown  of 
gray  batiste.  The  room  was  closely  shaded  from  the 
outer  heat  and  with  a  light  breeze  pouring  steadily 
through  the  Venetian  shades,  it  was  almost  cool.  The 
old  clean  heavy  chintz  curtains,  looped  back,  were 
lavender  in  tint,  as  were  the  draperies  of  the  enor 
mous  four-posted  bed,  the  covering  of  the  lounge, 
and  the  cushions  of  the  stiff  mahogany  chair.  The 
rugs  were  purplish  blue.  In  the  large  mirrors,  of  which 
there  were  several  in  the  room,  this  dim  gray-purple 
space  with  its  tall  occupant  made  many  mysterious, 
ghostly  reflections.  Miss  Selda,  with  her  dark-gray 
hair,  her  stone-gray  face,  and  her  mist-gray  dress, 
seemed  far  less  solid  than  the  huge  bureaus  and  ward 
robes.  She  swam  about  as  a  fish  swims  dimly  in  a 
grotto  among  large  rocks. 

Having  completed  her  toilet,  she  sat  down  before 
the  smaller  of  the  two  bureaus  and  fastened  a  brace 
let  on  her  narrow  wrist.  The  tortoise-shell  clock  that 
matched  her  brushes  and  boxes  and  trays  signaled  to 
her  with  slender  hands  that  it  was  five  o'clock.  She 
was  tired.  The  early  part  of  the  afternoon  had  been 


186 "Q" 

spent  at  a  directors'  meeting  down  at  the  Mills,  where 
Miss  Selda  had  been  hard  put  to  it  in  the  defense  of 
Dr.  Sales.  The  protests  against  his  mismanagement 
of  the  Mills  Hospital  had,  it  seemed,  suddenly  taken 
upon  themselves  a  new  and  startling  life  and  vigor. 
They  had  had  weight  and  persistency.  Not  since  the 
lawyer  she  had  engaged  in  his  defense  several  years 
before  had  so  effectively  cleared  the  physician  had 
there  been  any  such  courageous  attack  against  him. 
She  was  now  told  of  proven  mistakes,  negligences 
that  could  not  be  palliated  nor  overlooked.  The  work 
men  had  sent  in  a  formal  demand  for  his  removal,  for 
a  thorough  investigation  of  hospital  conditions.  Such 
a  removal  would  be,  for  anything  she  might  do,  a 
death-blow  to  his  practice  in  Sluypenkill.  No  influ 
ence  that  Grinscoombery  might  bring  to  bear  could 
save  Dr.  Sales,  once  his  ignorance  and  indolence  had 
been  admitted  by  the  directors  and  the  board.  Miss 
Selda  had  said  what  she  dared  in  Sales's  defense,  not 
too  much,  not  enough,  probably,  to  prevent  unpleas 
ant  developments.  She  thought  now  that  she  would 
go  downstairs  and  write  a  forceful  letter  to  Mr.  Gra 
ham.  She  must,  of  course,  do  something.  The  old 
lash  of  her  necessity  stung  her  fagged  spirit  dully. 
She  looked  up  from  the  fastening  of  her  bracelet  and 
met  in  the  mirror  her  own  staring  gray  eyes.  That 
secret  timidity  of  theirs  revealed  itself,  and  her  heart 
missed  its  beat. 

"It's  the  face  of  a  coward,"  Miss  Selda  made  com 
ment,  and  wondered  for  a  minute  if,  after  thirty-nine 
long  years  of  going  softly,  it  might  not  be  safe  to  fling 


Whip  Hand  187 


aside  the  old  ugly  precaution.  She  would  like  for  the 
rest  of  her  life  to  draw  free  breath. 

Instead,  she  must  in  a  few  minutes  meet  her  tyrant, 
the  indolent,  soft-tempered  tyrant  that,  without  so 
much  as  a  spoken  threat,  had  enveloped  her  whole 
life  with  a  weight  that  she  thought  sometimes  must 
have  dragged  her  down  from  even  a  semblance  of  self- 
respect.  Perhaps  he  had  heard  of  the  increased  ill- 
feeling  at  the  Mills  and  was  coming  to  prod  her  cham 
pionship.  Miss  Selda,  setting  her  lips  together  and 
steadying  her  look,  wished  him  dead.  She  was  one  of 
the  women  who,  in  more  adaptable  days,  would  have 
carried  her  poison  in  a  ring.  At  the  summons  of  a 
maid,  however,  she  stood  up,  drenched  a  handker 
chief  in  pungent  cologne,  and  went  downstairs  to 
greet  Sales  in  the  drawing-room. 

This  was  where  Heloise  and  her  friends  had  one 
merry  evening  toasted  marshmallows,  a  room  at  once 
more  informal  and  vastly  more  impressive  than  its 
gilded  neighbor  across  the  hall.  All  its  sober  browns 
and  duns  were  now  brightened  by  a  broad  afternoon 
light  pouring  steadily  through  four  long  windows, 
through  which  the  lawn  and  river  were  visible  in 
bands  of  green  and  silver.  The  air  was  moted  and 
still;  outside  the  locusts  were  in  full-bodied,  droning 
song.  Dr.  Sales  stood  with  his  back  to  the  flood  of 
light  and  looked  to  his  Jiostess  a  solid  mass  edged  with 
fire.  He  said,  the  instant  she  came  in,  "I  have  come 
on  rather  an  unpleasant  errand,"  and  because  this 
was  so  unlike  his  usual  indirectness  and  suavity, 
Miss  Selda  felt  dismay. 


188 "Q" 

"Shall  I  ring  for  tea?"  she  asked  doubtfully,  and 
he  considered  the  refreshment  for  a  full  minute,  blow 
ing  in  and  out  his  lips. 

"I  believe  not,  thank  you,  Selda." 

Then  they  seated  themselves,  Miss  Selda  drawing 
a  curtain  between  her  eyes  and  the  hot  light. 

"Must  you  be  unpleasant,  William?"  she  asked 
unsmilingly.  "I've  had  a  very  tiring  meeting.  All 
sorts  of  disagreeables  came  up  —  and  I  believe  that, 
even  as  the  owner  of  the  Mills,  my  personal  influence 
is  not  quite  so  strong  as  it  used  to  be.  William"  — 
she  looked  straight  at  him  and  held  herself  very  still — 
"you  should  try  to  mitigate  the  prejudice  that  exists 
against  you.  I  am  not  sure  myself  that  you  have  been 
either  very  efficient  or  dutiful  in  your  management  of 
the  Hospital.  It  is  not  fair  to  rely  upon  my  favor  to 
palliate  your  neglect." 

William's  facial  expression  suffered  a  momentary 
dissolution  as  though  pins  had  been  taken  out  of  a 
stretched  piece  of  linen  so  that  it  went  into  flabbiness 
and  disarrangement.  He  spread  it  out  again  by  some 
inner  reassurement. 

"At  least,"  he  said,  waiving  her  protest  as  though 
it  had  no  importance,  and  feeling  along  his  thinly 
trousered,  dusty  knees,  "your  influence  in  your  own 
household  is  as  strong  as  ever,  is  n't  it?" 

"I  hope  so."  She  drew  up  her  velvet-banded  neck 
and  William  smiled  his  easiest  smile. 

"Selda,  I  don't  like  Q.  And  I  want  to  warn  you 
that  I  can't  countenance  his  association  with  Hel- 


oise." 


Whip  Hand  189 


Very  faintly  her  grayness  dyed  itself.  "You  — 
can't  —  countenance?"  she  said,  each  syllable  a 
stepping-stone  across  a  very  slough  of  deep  disgust. 

"Quite  so.  I  can't  and  I  won't.  The  young  man 
must  be  put  quite  where  he  belongs,  which  is  emphat 
ically  not  in  the  position  of  a  favored  suitor  of  Heloise. 
What  do  you  know  about  him,  Selda?" 

"Know  about  Q?  But  why  should  anything  be 
known  about  such  a  person?" 

Sales  nodded  over  his  fingers  now  sliding  about  his 
chin. 

"I  see.  You  simply  let  him  by  because  you  think 
he  does  n't  sufficiently  matter  —  is  that  it?  But, 
Selda,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  in  justice  to  your  dig 
nity,  you  can't  allow  him  the  freedom  of  your  house. 
He  is  making  a  laughing-stock  of  the  Manor  —  all 
Sluypenkill  is  amused  by  this  ignorant  young  ad 
venturer,  who  is  trying  to  seduce  a  hotel  waitress  and 
at  the  same  time  trying  to  win  Miss  Heloise  Grins- 
coombe  for  his  wife." 

"What  are  you  saying,  William?" 

"The  truth.  I  have  kept  an  eye  on  Q.  T.  Kinwyd- 
den  —  think  of  his  name !  and  an  ear  open  concerning 
him,  too.  He  is  neither  a  very  safe  nor  a  very  nice 
young  man.  Take  my  word  for  it,  Selda.  He  is  playing- 
fast  and  loose  with  any  woman  silly  enough  to  be  ro 
mantic  over  a  handsome  cowboy.  I  don't  want  Hel 
oise  and  you  to  become  a  laughing-stock  —  well, 
more  than  that;  it  is  n't  safe  for  her  to  go  about  with 
him.  She  has  encouraged  his  conceit.  When  the  time 
comes,  as  of  course  it 's  bound  to  come,  for  her  to  ad- 


190  "Q" 

minister  a  snubbing,  she  '11  get  a  shock.  That  sort  of 
experience  with  a  man  who  is  not  a  gentleman,  whose 
women  have  been  the  girls  of  dancing-halls  and  dingy 
commercial  hotels  —  who  — " 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do,  William?"  Her 
voice  was  like  a  trembling  blade.  "Of  course  I  don't 
accept  a  word  of  this!" 

"  Call  him  in  here  and  send  him  to  the  right-about. 
He  has  given  Heloise  one  fright  —  some  people  met 
her  driving  with  him,  and  they  tell  me  she  looked  like 
an  angry  ghost." 

"But,  William,  you  expect  me  to  act  upon  an  opin 
ion  which  is  emphatically  not  my  own.  You  don't 
know  the  confidence  I  have  felt  in  him,  the  —  the  —  " 

"I  don't  want  to  know  anything  except  just  that  I 
am  going  to  get  my  way  in  this  matter.  You  may  not 
be  able  to  support  my  interests  at  the  Hospital,  but  I 
do  feel,  at  least,  that  here,  where  I  am  working  only 
for  your  interests,  I  do  deserve  the  consideration  of 
being  believed  and  yielded  to.  Heloise  is  being  talked 
about  as  Q's  alternative  pleasure  with  a  town  wait 
ress,  and  he  is  quite  capable  of  boasting  in  the  corner 
saloon  of  such  exploits." 

" You  say  —  ' call  him  in'?" 

"He's  in  your  garden  at  present  with  Heloise. 
Can't  he  be  sent  for?  Fadden  is  there,  too." 

Miss  Selda's  hands  pressed  each  other.  "Ferdi 
nand  Fadden?" 

The  doctor's  bright,  determined  little  eyes  pricked 
her.  No,  he  had  never  spoken  his  threat;  but  now  his 
hand  slipped,  as  though  in  absent-mindedness,  into 


Whip  Hand  191 


pockets,  and  brought  out  a  flat,  thin  pocket-book. 
He  poked  his  fingers  here  and  there  as  though  in 
stinctively  they  sought  for  old  faded  papers.  He  re 
turned  it  to  his  coat  as  Miss  Selda,  gray- white, 
walked  over  to  a  bell. 

"Please  tell  Mr.  Kinwydden,  Robert,  that  I  want 
to  see  him  in  the  drawing-room.  You'll  find  him  in 
the  garden."  She  hesitated.  "And  tell  Miss  Heloise 
I  want  to  see  her,  too;  that  she  will  have  to  excuse 
herself  from  Mr.  Fadden.  And  now,  William,  since 
you  dictate  this  necessity,  what  am  I  to  say?" 

"Ah,  I  suppose  I  can  safely  leave  that  to  you,  Selda. 
I  am  not  disturbing  myself  on  that  account." 

"  You  have  brought  no  definite  accusations.  I  have 
received  this  young  man.  He  has  always  conducted 
himself  quite  beautifully.  I  like  him."  She  smiled 
curiously.  "I'm  not  sure  that  I  don't  love  him." 

"What  nonsense,  Selda!  You  are  to  forbid  him 
the  house  —  and  Heloise!" 

"Suppose  she  defies  me." 

"She  will  hardly  do  that." 

"Come,  William,  you  must  really  give  me  some 
plausible  excuse  for  being  brutal  to  a  guest." 

"Tell  him  that,  as  a  dutiful  guardian,  you  have 
investigated  him,  and  don't  like  the  results." 

"In  other  words,  I  am  to  insult  him  with  a  lie." 

"You  were  asking  for  help — "  he  protested  sul 
lenly. 

"I  believe  I  can  do  better  without  it." 

They  were  silent.  Miss  Selda's  face  sharpened  into 
its  resemblance  to  a  guillotined  aristocrat.  Presently 


192 "Q" 

Heloise  came  in,  followed  by  Q.  Miss  Selda,  gripping 
the  arms  of  her  chair,  looked  up  at  them  both  with 
blank  staring  eyes.  She  had  set  the  guard  on  waver 
ing  and  self-betrayal,  but  she  could  not  command  her 
blood,  which  had  left  her  set  mouth.  Dr.  Sales  played 
with  his  watch-chain,  moved  to  the  window,  hummed 
softly. 

"Q,"  said  Miss  Selda  steadily,  as  one  recites  a  les 
son,  "I  am  sorry  to  be  driven  to  a  most  uncomfortable 
necessity."  She  paused.  Heloise,  who  had  dropped 
into  a  chair,  stirred  quickly,  glancing  at  Q.  He  stood 
before  Miss  Selda,  gently  and  shyly,  a  color  in  his 
cheeks.  His  face  did  n't  change,  but  he  looked  slowly 
across  the  room  at  Dr.  Sales's  back,  then  slowly  again 
at  Miss  Selda,  and  his  eyes  hardened. 

"You're  agoin'  to  tell  me  that  you  have  heerd 
something  against  me." 

"No,"  she  said.  "I  have  heard  nothing  against 
you.  It  is  only  that,  after  a  great  deal  of  difficult 
thinking,  I  have  got  some  advice,  and  I  have  come  to 
a  conclusion.  It  might,  after  all,  be  easier  for  us  both, 
if  Heloise  went  out  —  " 

At  this  Heloise  rose  quickly.  "  I  '11  go  back  to 
Ferdy,"  she  said,  and  passed  out  of  the  room,  witch- 
like  and  swift.  Q  looked  after  her,  then  back  at  Miss 
Selda.  Now  they  were  both  pale. 

"Did  you  call  in  doc  because  you  thought  mebbe 
what  you  was  agoin'  to  hand  to  me  would  be  too 
much  for  my  health?"  drawled  Q. 

"Dr.  Sales  is  my  —  adviser, "  she  answered  quickly 
and  proudly.  She  had  now,  helped  by  his  scoring, 


Whip  Hand  193 


made  up  her  mind  to  ruthlessness  and  had  hardened 
the  one  small  spot  of  compunction  that  had  been  Q's 
gift  to  her  matured  worldliness.  After  all,  such  would, 
in  any  case,  have  been  the  end  of  Q's  courtship  — 
"We  have  consulted  together  on  the  advisability  of 
permitting  your  association  with  my  niece.  Of  course, 
you  must  understand  that  I  made  a  considerable  con 
cession  to  you  in  the  first  place,  because  I  realized 
that  the  circumstances  of  your  —  acquaintance  with 
her  were  decidedly  out  of  the  ordinary.  But  won't 
you  sit  down?" 

He  did  sit  down  and  looked  thoughtfully  from  her 
to  his  folded  hands.  He  seemed  entirely  cool  and 
armored.  Neither  of  them,  after  this,  glanced  at 
Sales,  who,  however,  had  turned  about  and  was 
frankly  enjoying  the  spectacle  of  Q's  humiliation. 

Now  that  she  had  steeled  herself  to  using  the  knife, 
Miss  Selda  had  determined  to  use  it  conclusively. 
She  stared  at  Q  as  she  spoke,  and  her  lips  moved  more 
rapidly  than  usual. 

"Now,  without  meaning  to  hurt  you,  I  must  con 
fess  that,  in  my  opinion,  Mr.  Kinwydden,  you  have 
taken  an  unfair  advantage  of  my  indulgence.  I  grave 
you  credit,  perhaps,  for  a  more  acute  perception  and 
greater  delicacy  than  would  be  at  all  natural  for  any 
one  with  your  history." 

"So  I  hev  got  a  history!"  Q  murmured  with  unim 
paired  gentleness. 

"I  would  be  glad  to  hint,  but  I  see  that  hinting 
fails.  I  have  tried  to  show  you  by  inference  where  I 
set  the  limits  to  your  acquaintanceship  with  my  niece, 


194 "Q" 

but  now  I  see  that  I  must  be  brutally  explicit.  My 
dear  young  friend,  you  are  not  —  frankly  —  accept 
able  as  a  suitor  for  Heloise.  She  would  be  amused  at 
your  pretensions  if  she  could  understand  them  —  as 
I  have  slowly  come  to  understand  them.  Your  pur 
pose  in  coming  to  the  Manor,  I  am  really  forced  to 
believe,  has  been  to  win  the  affections  of  my  niece.  I 
absolutely  refuse  to  countenance  such  a  purpose. 
You  are  a  man  of  no  education,  no  family,  no  breed 
ing,  no  fortune.  It  can  only,  if  it  goes  on,  lead  you  to 
some  far  more  painful  experience  than  this  one.  It  is 
easier  for  you  to  hear  this  plain  speaking  from  me 
than  to  hear  it  eventually  from  her.  My  dear  Q,  al 
ready  you  are  making  her  and  me  the  laughing-stock 
of  the  place.  I  shall  certainly  not  allow  Heloise  to  be 
talked  of  or  laughed  about.  You  have  other  friends, 
more  suitable,  in  the  town,  other  far  more  accessible 
sweethearts.  There!  I  have  certainly  spoken  plainly. 
I  have  said,  of  course,  a  great  deal  more  than  enough. 
It  has  been  painful  to  me.  I  had  to  make  the  lesson 
thorough  and  final.  I  am  sure  that  you  will  never 
transgress  the  unwritten  laws  of  hospitality  in  just 
this  way  again.  You  will  probably  go  back  to  the 
West  a  wiser  and  soberer  young  man.  Keep  to  your 
own  kind,  my  dear  Q;  that's  where  your  happiness 
and  comfort  lie.  And  I  do  sincerely  wish  you  all  the 
happiness  in  the  world."  She  stopped  for  a  moment, 
the  velvet  band  moved  up  and  down  as  she  swallowed 
convulsively.  She  was  remembering  the  smile  he  had 
shed  upon  her  when  she  had  asked  him  for  his  help, 
when  she  had  admitted  and  approved  his  love  for 


Whip  Hand  195 


Heloise.  Astonishingly,  in  quite  the  same  fashion  he 
now  smiled  at  her.  She  hurried  on.  "I  want  now  to 
say  good-bye  and  to  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  that  our 
delightful  talks  are  over,  that  I  won't  see  you  again  at 
the  Manor.  I  will  explain  all  this  to  Heloise." 

At  the  end  of  this  speech,  Q  rose  and,  with  no  smile, 
he  spoke  to  Dr.  Sales. 

"You  have  the  whip  hand,  doc,"  he  said,  bowed 
gravely  and  was  gone. 

Startled  by  the  cool  abruptness  of  speech  and  act, 
they  stood  and  listened  to  his  quick  departing  foot 
steps  down  the  hall,  across  the  veranda,  crunching 
the  gravel,  silenced  on  the  lawn.  Then  Dr.  Sales,  pale, 
moved  his  eyes  uneasily  from  the  curtains  Q's  broad 
shoulders  had  set  swinging,  to  Miss  Selda.  She  was 
bent  in  her  chair;  her  head  had  fallen  so  far  forward 
that  he  could  see  only  her  chin  below  the  gray  bands 
of  her  hair.  Her  fingers  clutched  the  arms  of  her 
chair.  They  were  like  claws.  From  head  to  foot,  she 
trembled  visibly. 

It  was  the  acme  of  her  long  humiliation. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

GRINSCOOMBERY 

"WHAT  did  you  do  with  Q?"  Heloise's  swift  young 
voice  flashed  almost  visibly  across  the  twilight  dark 
ness  of  the  room  where  Miss  Selda  still  sat.  Sunset 
had  come  and  gone,  the  afterglow  had  risen  from  floor 
to  ceiling  and  had  faded  out  as  though  under  a  fine 
sifting  of  gray  dust.  The  locust  voices  droned  end 
lessly.  There  began  to  be  a  faint  rustle  of  tired  leaves 
as  a  breeze  sprang  up  from  the  ruffled  leaden  river. 

Lelo  followed  her  first  question  with  another,  more 
doubtfully  keyed.  "Are  you  still  here,  Aunt  Selda?" 

"I  am  still  here.  Don't  light  anything.  It  has  been 
so  hot." 

"Aunt  Selda  —  where  is  Q?" 

"He  has  gone." 

Heloise  stood  before  her  aunt,  trying  to  see  more 
clearly  the  white,  narrow  oval  of  her  face,  which 
looked  like  a  pale  mask  with  two  black  holes. 

"I  have  sent  him  away  for  good  —  for  his  own 
good,  probably.  I  told  him  that  I  did  not  consider 
him  an  acceptable  suitor  for  you,  Heloise;  that  neither 
his  birth,  education,  nor  history  warranted  any  pre 
tensions  of  that  sort." 

"Aunt  Selda!" 

The  narrow  hand  on  the  thin  arm  was  lifted  like  an 
ivory  hand  on  the  end  of  a  stick.  "Don't  raise  your 
voice,  please!  Did  you  intend  to  marry  Q.  T.  Kin- 
wydden,  Heloise?" 


Grinscoombery  197 


"But  —  Aunt  Selda  —  this  is  so  dramatic  —  so 
ridiculous.  I  —  I  had  no  plans  at  all  about  Q.  He  is 
my  friend  —  I  —  I  promised  him  my  friendship." 

"Was  that  what  he  wanted,  Heloise?" 

"Oh,  I  think  so.  Yes.  You  know  what  men  are. 
They  want  whatever  they  can  get,  of  course.  But  Q! 
I  can't  bear  thinking  what  you  must  have  done  to 
him.  And  always  before  you  've  been  so  kind  to  him. 
He  must  have  thought  you  were  his  friend.  Why,  you 
were  —  you  and  he  —  such  great  friends!" 

"I  don't  form  great  friendships  with  such  young 
men,  my  dear.  It  is  kinder  to  check  Q  now  than  later. 
You  won't  see  him  again." 

"I  will.  I  must.  I  tell  you,  I  promised  him  my 
friendship." 

Her  face,  with  lips  and  cheeks  vivid  as  though  they 
had  been  painted,  grew  out  of  the  dusk  to  Miss  Selda's 
vision.  The  girl,  so  cool  and  languid  and  detached, 
had  been  stung  out  of  her  indifference,  dangerously 
stung. 

Miss  Selda  stirred  uneasily  in  her  high-backed 
chair. 

"You  are  rash  in  your  promises  of  friendship,  Hel 


oise." 


This  recalled  to  Heloise  Grinscoombe  another 
promise.  "I  think  I  am  old  enough  to  choose  my  own 
friends,  Aunt  Selda.  Other  girls  nowadays  are  not 
kept  under  such  minute  control."  She  laughed  an 
grily.  "Q  says  you  have  me  whip-broke.  I  think  he 
means  I'm  a  coward;  I  am  a  coward." 

"Never  be  that!"  Miss  Selda  spoke  sharply. 


198 "Q" 

Heloise  moved  to  one  of  the  windows.  The  breeze 
blew  her  sheer  dress  back  against  her  body;  the  faint 
lingering  lights  of  the  summer  darkness  just  revealed 
her,  gold  and  white  and  green. 

"I  promised  my  friendship  to  my  cousin,  Mary 
Grinscoombe,"  she  said  without  turning,  "but  I  have 
been  too  much  of  a  coward  to  keep  my  word." 

Miss  Selda  stood  up,  walked  to  the  wall,  and 
switched  on  the  light. 

"Where  have  you  seen  your  cousin,  Mary  Grins 
coombe?"  There  was  no  sign  of  weakness  in  her 
voice  and  carriage  now;  she  was  very  angry  and  very 
formidable.  Heloise  turned  and  showed  a  face  strained 
with  fright,  and  blinking,  rebellious  eyes. 

"The  day  I  cut  Q's  wrist  I  took  him  into  a  house 
where  Dr.  Sales's  car  was  standing.  And  it  was  my 
Uncle  Henry's  house  and  Mary  opened  the  door/' 
The  memory  of  that  small  proud  person  diverted 
Lelo  from  her  panic.  "But  you  don't  know  Mary, 
Aunt  Selda  —  she  —  she's  splendid!" 

"She  must  be." 

"Truly.  You'd  love  her.  She's  so  intelligent,  so 
bred!" 

Again,  and  more  dryly,  "She  must  be,"  said  Miss 
Selda. 

Lelo's  temper  rose.  It  was  a  Grinscoombe  temper, 
a  pampered  one. 

"Why  should  n't  she  be?  She's  your  own  brother's 
daughter!" 

"The  daughter  of  a  drunkard  and  the  housemaid 
—  he  seduced." 


Grinscoombery  199 


Heloise  put  her  hands  over  her  ears.  She  had  never 
been  told  Henry  Grinscoombe's  history.  Seeing  that 
her  aunt  was  speaking  again,  she  took  down  her  hands 
and,  going  to  a  sofa,  sat  facing  her  with  tight  lips  and 
scarlet  cheeks.  So  she  listened  to  a  cold,  clear  recital 
of  the  events  that  preceded  Henry's  disinheritance. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  your  Uncle  Henry?  One  such 
sight  ought  to  be  enough." 

"Y-yes.  I  have  seen  him.  I  think  he 's  pathetic  and 
rather  —  beautiful." 

Miss  Selda  laughed.  "Your  cowboy  has  been  mak 
ing  a  sentimentalist  out  of  you,  my  dear.  It's  just  as 
well  I  have  dismissed  him." 

"/  have  not  dismissed  him,"  said  Heloise. 

"I  doubt  if  after  what  I  said  to  him  he  will  wait  for 
any  further  —  dismissals." 

"Oh,  Aunt  Selda!  What  did  you  say  to  him?" 
Heloise  wailed. 

"Enough,  I  think." 

Heloise  smote  one  slim  palm  with  a  slim  fist.  She 
sat  thinking  and  with  an  effort  calmed  herself.  She 
seemed  to  dismiss  Q  for  the  moment. 

"I  am  not  sentimental,  Aunt  Selda,"  she  began 
composedly  enough.  "You  ought  to  know  me  better. 
And  I  never  cared  a  penny  really  about  Mary,  until 
I  met  her.  Now  I  can't  help  caring.  It's  a  case  for 
common  justice.  I  have  everything  and  she  has  noth 
ing.  And  yet  she  is  as  close  a  relation  to  you  as  I  am. 
And  she 's  so  much  finer.  Mary  is  —  well,  there 's 
something  great  about  her." 

"So  that  you  would  like  to  play  the  Lady  Bound- 


200 "Q" 

ful  to  her,  as  well  as  to  Q.  You  have  a  gift  for  con 
descension,  Lelo.  I've  often  noticed  it." 

The  phrases  stung  the  girl's  tenderest  vanities  and 
she  moved  quickly  toward  the  door.  "I  am  going  to 
see  Mary  now,"  she  said. 

"You  don't  suppose  I  shall  allow  you  to  take  the 
car  for  such  a  purpose!" 

"Very  well,  I'll  walk." 

"Heloise!"  The  narrow  hands  were  lifted  and  fell, 
their  gesture  accompanied  by  an  incredulous,  exas 
perated  note  of  laughter.  "Oh,  go  by  all  means!  A 
five-mile  walk  on  a  hot  evening  —  no  dinner,  a  late  and 
lonely  trip  home!  that  should  take  some  of  the  con 
descension  out  of  you.  Your  temper  may  carry  you 
as  far  as  the  gate.  If  it  takes  you  any  farther,  it  will 
make  a  fool  of  you,  and  that  is  usually  a  beneficial  ex 
perience.  You  will  find  yourself  involved  in  consider 
able  discomfort,  and  you  will  do  Mary  a  very  ill  turn 
with  me." 

"What  do  you  mean?  You  have  never  done  her  a 
good  turn,  have  you?  Never  intended  to  do  any 
thing  for  her?" 

"It  is  not  your  business,  of  course,  my  dear,  but,  in 
justice  to  myself,  I  will  tell  you  that  at  various  times 
I  have  lent  my  brother  rather  large  sums  through  the 
agency  of  Dr.  Sales." 

"  You  mean  that  Mary  thinks  he  —  " 

"Yes,  that  he  has  lent  them." 

-"How  perfectly  insufferable  for  her  to  be  under 
obligations  to  that  man!" 

Miss  Selda  flinched,  and  Heloise,  snatching  up  a 


Grinscoombery  201 


wide  hat  as  she  went,  darted  out  into  the  dusk.  An 
ger  gave  a  spurring  vigor  to  her  steps.  What  were 
five  miles  to  her  trained  young  muscles !  In  Aunt  Sel- 
da's  youth,  walking  was  an  unaccustomed  exertion, 
but  Aunt  Selda  did  not  belong  to  the  swimming,  golf- 
and-tennis-playing,  dancing  generation  with  which 
Heloise  had  been  trained  to  compete.  She  walked 
freely  with  a  tall,  lithe  swing,  and  anger  made  her  un 
conscious  of  her  speed.  She  was  in  revolution,  a  red 
riot  of  revolution,  and  she  gloried  in  her  new  sensa 
tions.  She  would  dine  with  her  Uncle  Henry,  and  she 
would  telephone  to  Q  and  see  him  at  Mary's  house. 
She  would  do  the  free,  fine,  courageous  thing.  What 
a  pity  she  had  n't  thought  of  this  before,  and  let  Fer 
dinand  run  her  into  town  in  his  machine.  And,  with 
the  name,  her  feet  faltered  and  her  first  speed  slacked. 
She  thought  of  Ferdinand  for  half  an  hour  without 
pause,  and  the  night,  with  its  stars  and  its  heat,  the 
dust  of  the  roadside,  the  faint  rushing  of  the  river,  be 
came  the  sultry  surging  of  his  passion  —  oppressive, 
exciting,  dangerous,  impossible  of  clean  fulfillment. 
If  Aunt  Selda  —  here  Heloise  smiled  the  small  smile 
of  Sir  Sydney  Grinscoombe  —  had  guessed,  she  would 
not  so  summarily  have  dismissed  Q.  The  watch-dog 
had  been  driven  away  just  as  the  wolf  gathered  him 
self  to  spring!  Poor  watch-dog!  Or  poor  wolf!  Or  — 
perhaps  —  poor  little  lamb !  Heloise  laughed  aloud  at 
her  own  rhetorical  interpretations  of  her  predicament. 
She  wondered  what  her  arch-eyed  cousin  Mary  would 
think  of  all  this  confusion  of  feeling,  the  deep-down, 
smothered,  willfully  ignored  bitterness  of  a  past 


202 "Q" 

wound,  the  heat  of  a  present  temptation,  the  mysteri 
ous  waver  of  her  heart  toward  Q,  who,  for  all  his  grim 
strength,  was  as  clean  as  a  mountain  wind.  The 
chained,  bewildered,  struggling  heart  of  the  girl 
stilled  itself  suddenly  as  though  by  mention  of  him 
she  had  opened  the  heavy  curtains  of  the  night.  Q, 
tight-lipped,  deep-eyed  —  he  had  been  hurt,  and  she 
was  to  blame.  She  had  trapped  him.  What  could  she 
do  with  her  bad  heart?  So  tormented  youth  inter 
preted  the  night  to  its  own  varying  moods. 

Mary,  in  the  desperation  of  her  discovery  of  him, 
had  told  Dr.  Sales  that  nothing  could  surprise  her.  It 
was  a  rash  challenge  to  topsy-turvydom.  Life  had 
many  surprises  in  store  for  Mary,  many  more  over 
whelming,  none  perhaps  so  unexpected,  as  that  which 
came  to  her  threshold  on  that  sultry  Friday  night. 
She  had  finished  clearing  up  her  supper  dishes,  for 
Heloise  had  fancied  a  dinner  hour  of  half-past  seven 
when  the  reality  was  a  supper  at  half -past  six.  Henry 
Grinscoombe  had  wandered  out  into  the  night  to 
make  an  early  rendezvous  with  Kinwydden.  Mary 
was  alone.  She  was  alone,  and  she  was  sitting  on  the 
top  step  of  her  narrow  stairs,  because  here,  with  the 
door  open  below  and  a  window  open  above,  the  little 
house  drew  in  breaths  of  night  air,  and  Mary's  curls 
were  pleasantly  lifted  about  her  ears.  She  wore  the 
thinnest  of  worn  white  frocks,  carefully  mended  and 
daintily  laundered  by  her  own  capable  fingers.  She 
told  herself  that  she  ought  to  be  making  out  Q's  pro 
gramme  for  to-morrow.  She  told  herself  that  if  Grins- 
coombery  had  not  been  Grinscoombery,  she  might  be 


Grinscoombery  203 


flowing  through  the  dark  in  a  big  car,  like  Mr.  Fad- 
den's.  She  decided,  tucking  in  her  mouth  corners, 
that  it  would  be  more  amazing  to  be  loping  across  an 
endless  gray-green  plain  with  Q.  These  dreams  hurt, 
but  they  were  a  sort  of  ecstasy.  Mary's  imagination 
was  as  vivid  as  that  of  most  repressed  and  thwarted 
natures.  She  dissipated  in  visions.  She  leaned  her 
head  against  the  balustrade,  caught  her  knee  in  her 
hand  and  half -closed  her  eyes.  She  felt  the  swing  of 
the  horse,  smelt  sage  adrift  across  her  nostrils,  heard 
Q's  companionable,  brief  laugh.  He  might  put  out 
his  hand,  comradely,  to  crush  hers,  because  they 
were  both  so  free  and  happy  under  the  white  light  of  a 
big  western  moon.  If  only  the  beat  of  the  ponies' 
hooves  had  not  counted  up  figures.  Two  dollars  — 
two  thousand  dollars,  they  hammered,  that  must  be 
paid  to  Dr.  Sales.  Or  else  —  two  kisses,  two  thou 
sand  kisses.  She  jerked  disgustedly  back  from  a  big 
soft  face  and  her  head  bumped  against  the  railing. 
Some  one  below  her  was  murmuring,  "Mary! 
Mary!"  She  must  have  been  asleep. 

Mary  stood  up  mechanically  and  came  down  the 
stairs.  Grinscoombery  in  the  person  of  her  tall  cousin 
stood  in  the  doorway.  Mary  could  not  believe  it  un 
til,  lighting  a  gas-jet  in  the  hall,  she  definitely  made 
out  a  white,  tired,  laughing  face  under  a  wide  green 
hat. 

"Heloise!  But  you  look  so  hot  and  tired!" 

Heloise  pulled  off  her  hat  and  pushed  back  from 
wet  temples  the  clinging  golden  hair. 

"I  walked  every  step  of  the  way  to  see  you,  Mary. 
It's  a  revolution." 


204  "Q" 

Mary  led  the  way  into  her  sitting-room,  pulled 
down  the  shades,  and  lit  the  lamp.  Heloise  flung  her 
self  down  in  the  wicker  chair. 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  asked  faintly.  There  were 
no  signs  of  that  late  dinner. 

"Eight  o'clock  or  later.  I'll  get  you  some  lemon 
ade.  Heloise,  do  you  mean  that  you  came  to  see  me 
against  Miss  Grinscoombe's  wishes  —  that  you  quar 
reled  with  her  on  my  account?" 

"On  your  account  and  Q's."  Heloise  fingered  her 
hat  confusedly  and  lifted  eyes  that  were  embarrassed 
to  Mary's  gentle  sternness. 

"But  I  don't  like  it  a  bit!" 

With  this  emphatic  expression  Mary  went  into  her 
kitchen  to  make  the  lemonade  and  Heloise  dropped 
back  her  head  and  closed  her  eyes,  fanning  herself 
with  her  wide  hat.  It  was  not  only  weariness  that 
made  her  shut  her  eyes;  it  was  distaste  for  her  sur 
roundings.  To  Heloise's  spoiled  senses,  the  working- 
man's  house,  for  all  its  neatness,  was  an  offense.  It 
smelled  of  paint,  it  was  close;  the  noises  of  the  town, 
grating  trolley  wheels,  clapping  footsteps,  rough 
voices,  filled  it.  Heloise  dreaded  the  appearance  of  an 
inebriate  uncle.  Was  it  here  that  Q  received  his  les 
sons?  His  image  suffered  from  the  association.  No, 
she  would  not  telephone  to  Q  nor  ask  him  to  meet  her 
here.  How  could  she  have  planned  anything  so  un 
dignified,  so  tasteless,  so  vulgar?  A  clandestine  meet 
ing  in  such  a  room  as  this,  under  the  chaperonage  of 
such  people.  Already  Heloise  was  beginning  to  taste 
the  sharp  flavor  of  Aunt  Selda's  prophecy.  The  walk 


Grinscoombery  205 


in  heat  and  dust  had  taken  the  first  fine  flush  of  her 
angry  impulse  from  her,  and  she  was  now  conscious 
of  cold  discomfort.  Her  cousin  in  this  stifling,  shabby, 
tiny  room  was  the  veriest  stranger.  The  visit  was  cer 
tainly  a  blunder  in  taste.  She  was  feeling,  true  to 
Aunt  Selda's  suggestion,  like  a  fool.  It  would  be  im 
possible  to  break  through  all  the  bitter  years  of  es 
trangement  that  lay  between  this  cousin  Mary  and 
the  Manor  and  herself,  and  even  if  she  did,  would  any 
friendship  between  this  girl  and  herself  prosper? 

"I  owe  you  something  a  great  deal  stronger  than 
lemonade  for  making  such  an  effort."  Mary  had  come 
in,  and  was  setting  a  tray  with  pitcher  and  two 
glasses  on  the  table.  Her  presence,  pretty  and  quiet 
and  proud,  gave  Heloise  back  a  little  of  her  courage. 
Yes,  Mary  might  be  worth  it,  if  only  she  could  be 
plucked  out  of  her  surroundings,  out  of  her  past. 

For  the  moment,  Heloise  was  completely  at  a  loss 
and  sipped  her  lemonade  in  silence,  affecting  greater 
weariness  than  she  felt. 

"Please  tell  me,  Heloise,  just  why  you  came." 
"Because  I  promised  to  try  to  be  your  friend." 
"Yes."   Mary's  smile  was  a  smile  of  spontaneous 
brimming  amusement.    Her  small  face  sparkled.    It 
was  as  though  she  had  exclaimed,  "What  a  funny 
girl  you  are!"   And  Heloise  felt  mortifyingly  like  a 
"funny  girl."    She  made  a  desperate  effort  to  win 
back  her  sense  of  worldly  superiority.    She  did  not 
recognize  the  Lady  Bountiful  spirit  with  which  a 
discerning  aunt  had  discredited  her. 

"Mary,  my  dear,  Q  has  often  accused  me  of  coward- 


206  "Q" 

ice  because  of  my  neglect  of  you.  Certainly  you  have 
been  most  unjustly  treated  by  Aunt  Selda,  and  I 
should  like  so  much  to  make  amends,  if  it 's  possible. 
I've  thought  about  you  always  so  much.  Every  Sun 
day,  for  years  and  years,  I  Ve  walked  up  the  aisle  at 
church  and  passed  you  and  wondered  about  you." 

Mary  blushed.  So  many  unprofitable  moments, 
consecrated  to  worship,  she  had  spent  in  bitter  won 
der  over  the  callousness  of  that  sister  of  her  father 
who  bowed  and  knelt  and  murmured  herself  a  "mis 
erable  sinner,"  and,  "being  in  love  and  charity  with 
her  neighbors,  steadfastly  purposing  to  lead  a  new 
life,"  took  wine  and  bread  with  lesser  sinners;  the 
aunt  who  begged  audibly  to  be  delivered  from  pride, 
vainglory,  and  hypocrisy.  Mary  now  felt  that  her 
inner  comments  on  the  lofty  Miss  Grinscoombe  and 
the  lovely,  aloof  young  cousin,  exquisitely  gowned, 
must  often  have  shouted  themselves  across  the  dim 
little  rustling  church. 

She  said  to  Heloise,  "You  could  n't  have  imagined 
what  a  wicked,  malicious  little  girl  I  was  —  and  am." 
Then,  before  her  cousin  could  speak,  she  hurried  on, 
flushed  and  proud.  "You  must  n't  feel  any  weight  on 
your  conscience  about  me,  Heloise;  that  is  n't  just. 
None  of  the  trouble  has  been  your  fault.  You 
could  n't  be  expected  to  break  through  the  Grins 
coombe  traditions,  for  I  suppose,  in  a  way,  that  is 
what  has  stood  between  us.  I've  had  a  name  for  it" 
—  here  she  glanced  half-apologetically,  half-slyly, 
a  trifle  hopefully,  perhaps —  "Grinscoombery!" 

Heloise  opened  her  green  eyes  wide  and  looked  po- 


Grinscoombery  207 


litely  dazed.  "Grinscoombery —  !"  The  two  girls 
were  silent,  the  word  seemed  to  grow  between  them 
a  tangled  hedge  of  misunderstandings,  differences. 
Heloise  wrestled  with  her  bewilderment  and  —  yes  — 
her  offense,  and  Mary,  looking  at  her  as  above  a  mag 
ically  growing  hedge,  understood  conclusively  that 
the  splendid  revolution  was  a  failure.  It  hurt  her  — 
for  Heloise.  She  wanted  to  console  the  gallant  ad 
venturer.  "You  have  been  so  sweet,"  she  sighed  in 
adequately,  "I  am  so  grateful  to  you.  I  don't  want 
you  to  quarrel  with  your  aunt  —  " 

Heloise,  still  faintly  bewildered,  tried  to  brush  away 
that  word,  but  all  through  the  remainder  of  the  inter 
view  the  troubled  preoccupation  it  had  provoked 
made  her  eyes  sad  and  absent. 

"I  have  had  everything"  —  she  made  a  measured 
confession  —  "and  you  have  had  nothing.  I  re 
minded  Aunt  Selda  this  evening  that,  after  all,  you 
are  as  much  her  niece  as  I  am.  To  do  her  justice  — • 
Mary  —  for  I  did  accuse  her  of  downright  cruelty  and 
neglect  —  " 

"To  do  her  justice  —  ?"  Mary  prompted. 

"I  suppose  I  am  betraying  a  confidence  —  but  it  is 
only  fair  to  us  —  to  Aunt  Selda  and  me  —  " 

"Fair  to  Grinscoombery,"  thought  Mary,  but  had 
already  learned  to  keep  it  a  thought. 

"To  let  you  know  what  she  told  me.  She  told  me, 
Mary,  that,  through  Dr.  Sales,  she  had  given  your 
father  assistance  more  than  once,  to  the  amount  of 
several  thousands,  I  imagine.  She  fancied  you  would 
prefer  to  believe  it  came  from  Dr.  Sales,  and  perhaps 


208 "Q" 

she  was  right.  I've  never  liked  Dr.  Sales.  I  don't 
quite  know  why.  Perhaps  because  I  think  Aunt  Selda 
is  far  too  submissive  to  him  —  But,  Mary,  what  is 
the  matter?" 

"Nothing.  I'm  just  putting  my  hands  over  my 
eyes.  They  —  feel  a  little  weak." 

Heloise  rose  uncertainly. 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  go.  You  are  tired.  I  won 
der  —  "  She  drifted  toward  the  door. 

Mary  came  quickly  after  her.  She  was  now  smil 
ing.  "I  think  you've  been  splendid.  I'm  honestly 
grateful,  Heloise;  my  friendship  will  not  be  worth  any 
sacrifice  to  you  —  " 

"Since  I  chose  to  be  your  friend —  !"  Heloise 
spoke  proudly,  but  it  was,  nevertheless,  a  hollow  atti 
tude,  a  hollow  speech. 

"It's  quite  enough  that  you  did  choose."  Mary 
was  firm.  "The  impulse  that  brought  you  here  was 
the  desire  to  overcome  what  you  like  to  call  your 
cowardice,  to  vindicate  your  courage  to  Q,  to  prove 
your  independence  of  your  aunt,  and  to  do  me  justice. 
Well,  Heloise,  you've  done  all  this.  And  I  want  you 
to  let  it  be  enough.  It  will  always  be  to  me  a  splendid 
recollection.  I  like  it.  I  do  like  it,  yes,  I  do,  in  spite  of 
my  ridiculous  pride  and  temper.  But  you  see,  Heloise, 
your  friendship  can't  include  Papa;  mine  can't  in 
clude  your  aunt.  We  can't  be  free  in  our  intercourse. 
Can  you  come  here  and  visit  me?  Can  I  go  out  to  the 
Manor?  It 'sail  unfortunate,  unnatural.  This  sounds 
very  cold  and  —  repellent,  I  'm  afraid.  It 's  not  your 
fault,  nor  mine.  It's"  —  she  drew  a  great  breath,  as 


Grinscoombery  209 

though  pulling  the  word  up  by  its  own  weight  — 
"  it 's  Grinscoombery ! " 

Heloise  had  put  on  her  hat.  Her  face  was  cool  and 
smooth  now,  if  a  trifle  pinched  about  the  lips  and 
nostrils.  She  looked  curiously  like  Aunt  Selda.  Her 
eyes  tried  to  meet  Mary's,  but  slipped  uncomfortably 
through  their  uncompromising  challenge.  Mary  sadly 
enough  put  out  her  hand. 

"Thank  you  so  much.   Good-night." 

Heloise  spoke  uncertainly  in  a  faint,  sad  voice. 
"Good-bye,"  she  said.  It  was  a  blank  admission  of 
failure.  Grinscoombery  had  definitely  claimed  her 
for  its  own.  "  May  I  use  your  telephone?  "  she  said,  as 
though  to  a  stranger.  "I  think  I  shall  get  a  taxi  to 
take  me  home." 

As  she  stepped  into  the  taxi,  a  thought  of  Q  smote 
Heloise  and  a  sharp  pain  went  through  her  body  near 
the  region  of  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SOWING  THE  WIND 

IN  the  cold  blood  that  followed  the  failure  of  her  more 
romantic  impulses,  Heloise  decided  that  she  would 
take  it  for  a  sign  that  by  Q's  dismissal  Fate  meant 
that  she  was  to  drink  the  heady  potion  Ferdinand 
offered  her  as  nearly  to  the  dregs  as  safety  might  per 
mit.  Deliberately,  therefore,  she  postponed  her  mes 
sage  of  reassurance  to  Q  until  after  her  next  meeting 
with  the  more  dangerous  man.  She  could  not  know, 
because  she  lacked  imagination  and  had  an  untrained 
sympathy,  just  what  this  intentional  reservation  of 
loyalty  would  mean  to  Q  himself. 

He  had  suffered  greatly  at  Miss  Selda's  hands;  this 
in  spite  of  a  shrewd  comprehension  of  her  act;  but  no 
such  suffering  could  equal  the  slow  disillusionment  his 
heart  endured  as  it  waited  in  the  bare,  blazing  hotel 
bedroom  all  the  long  next  day  for  a  message  that  did 
not  come.  He  would  not  go  to  school  that  day,  so 
hungry  wras  he  for  the  reassurance,  so  certain  was  he 
of  his  lady's  loyalty.  He  did  not  come  down  to  lunch. 
At  four  o'clock  he  came  out  of  his  room  as  nearly  a 
devil  as  can  well  be  imagined.  To  this  grim,  white, 
and  dangerous  devil,  Sophie  tremulously  addressed 
herself. 

She  had  been  coming  along  the  red-carpeted,  dingy 
hall  that  looked  like  some  long  dragon's  gullet,  and 
she  had  been  hurrying,  fixed  eyes  and  a  white  face, 


Sowing  the  Wind 


dressed  for  a  journey  and  carrying  a  small  bag  in  her 
hand.  When  Q  stalked  from  his  door  across  her  path 
she,  startled  like  a  thief,  stopped,  flamed  with  some 
change  of  blood,  and  came  doubtfully  close. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Q,"  she  said. 

He  stopped  and  looked  down  at  her  with  ice-gray 
eyes,  and,  as  she  met  them,  her  own  widened  in  a 
frightened  fashion  and  she  put  a  hand  on  his  arm, 
found  it  iron  and  trembled  back. 

"What's  the  matter?  Are  you  angry  with  me? 
What  've  I  done?" 

He  spoke  roughly  and  thickly.  "Nothing.  Get  on 
with  what  you  meant  to  tell  me." 

She  twisted  the  beseeching,  rejected  hand  into  its 
fellow;  so  strait  was  her  own  predicament  that  it 
made  her  ignore  his  unaccustomed  harshness.  "  I  'm 
not  going  to  stay  here  any  more,"  she  said,  looking 
from  side  to  side.  "I'm  scared,  if  I  do,  that  I'll  get 
married  to  Jonas  Ben  ton.  Now  that  there  is  n't  any 
hope  at  all"  —  her  beautiful  long  throat  above  the 
shabby  collar  of  a  thin  blue  serge  jacket  moved  as 
she  swallowed  violently  —  "well  —  what  's  the  use! 
What  's  to  keep  my  courage  up,  anyway,  against  those 
two  always  plaguing  and  quarreling  and  threatening? 
I'm  going  away." 

"  Sure  —  what  's  the  use  !  "  he  said.  "Might  as  well 
get  out.  Sluypenkill  ain't  the  whole  world.  Good- 
bye." 

With  a  grim  effort  of  his  will  he  forced  himself  to 
take  her  hand.  It  was  very  cold,  and  that  fact  faintly 
reached  his  imagination.  Her  eyes  clung  to  his  as 


Q" 


though  they  wished  to  tell  him  some  desperate  truth. 
She  said  in  a  whisper,  "  Good-bye,"  a  whisper  that 
acknowledged  a  faint  hope  of  which  his  manner  had 
deprived  her,  then  she  went  on  along  the  hall,  her 
hand  holding  to  the  railing  of  the  stair-  well.  She 
moved  very  slowly  now,  though,  before  Q  came  out, 
she  had  been  walking  in  hot  haste. 

"I've  told  them,"  she  murmured,  "that  I  was  go 
ing  to  shop."  She  started  down  the  stairs. 

Mechanically,  Q  came  to  the  well  and  watched  her. 
The  habit  of  sympathy  cannot  be  broken  hi  an  in 
stant.  His  own  mood  of  reckless  deviltry,  the  beastli 
ness  of  his  smothered  intentions,  made  her  actions 
readable  to  him.  He  was  remembering  in  a  cold,  im 
personal  fashion  that  he  had  seen  her  at  least  twice 
in  close  conversation  with  that  smart,  insolent,  good- 
looking  drummer  who  got  even  with  God  by  laughing 
at  his  fellow-men.  Q  knew  that  drummer  type  re 
markably  well,  its  noise  and  insolence  and  tawdry. 
soiled  emotions,  the  towns  of  his  West  were  infested 
with  loud-mouthed  cheerfulness  and  whispering,  sala 
cious  gallantries.  Why  would  Sophie  be  hobnobbing 
with  that  fellow?  Because  all  women  were  cheats  and 
fools?  Or  because,  being  turned  out  of  her  heaven, 
there  was  no  place  left  for  her  hurt  spirit  but  hell. 
The  man  had  a  motor,  too,  or  at  least  had  the  run 
ning  of  one  in  the  interests  of  his  salesmanship. 
It  would  mean  for  Sophie  a  quick  getaway,  a  quick 
and  complete  escape  from  her  intolerable  treadmill 
of  drudgery  and  persecution.  A  picture  of  Laurie's 
sensitive  face,  keen,  quick,  and  haunted  eyes,  boyish 


Sowing  the  Wind  213 

crop  of  curly  red  hair,  his  struggling  look,  pierced 
Q's  hardness,  and  on  that  instant,  as  though  his 
thought  called,  Sophie,  faltering  down  the  steps, 
lifted  up  her  eyes  to  him  once.  Q  sprang  after  her 
down  the  stair,  passed  her  and  turned  about,  barring 
her  way. 

"No,  you  don't,  you  Sophie  gel,"  he  ground  out 
softly  through  set  teeth.  "You  go  back  and  lock 
yourself  into  your  room  while  I  go  down  and  beat  up 
that  smiling  feller  to  a  pulp." 

Sophie,  red  as  fire,  cried  out  passionately,  "  Let  me 
by!" 

"No,  ma'am.  You  go  back." 

She  turned  white.  "You  have  nothing  to  say  about 
what  I  do.  I'll  go  where  I  please,  with  any  fellow  I 
please.  Who  cares?  Let  me  get  by!"  Then,  with  a 
look  down  and  a  triumphant,  pale  smile,  "Father's 
coming  up.  If  you  don't  get  out  of  my  way,  I'll 


scream." 


He,  too,  glanced  down  over  the  banister,  and  saw 
that  in  fact  Sophie's  pimpled  father  was  slowly  mount 
ing  the  flight  just  below.  He,  out  of  the  line  of  vision, 
had  not  as  yet  seen  them  on  the  stair. 

As  Q  moved  back  from  his  swift  inspection,  Sophie 
put  her  hand  on  him  to  thrust  him  aside,  and  it  needed 
only  this  touch  to  bring  his  devil  of  thwarted,  wounded 
will  into  violent  action.  He  reverted  rapidly  to  type. 
The  trammeling  garments  of  civilization  fell  from  his 
spirit.  So  often  life  had  brought  him  face  to  face  with 
the  necessity  for  physical  violence.  While  for  months 
now  he  had  been  tilting  with  windmills  of  vague,  op- 


214  "Q" 

posing  forces,  here  was  a  concrete  will  pitted  against 
his.  With  one  great  gesture  he  caught  Sophie  up  bod 
ily,  his  arm  across  her  mouth,  pressing  her  head 
against  him,  and  ran  back  with  her  across  the  hall  into 
his  own  room.  She  was  now  fighting  like  a  tigress, 
both  of  them  primitive,  passionate,  released.  Holding 
her  with  one  hand,  he  sought  in  his  closet,  found  his 
rope  —  of  course  he  had  brought  it  with  him,  for  he 
could  not  possibly  have  imagined  a  place  where  for  so 
long  there  would  be  no  necessity  for  its  many-sided 
usefulness  —  and,  like  an  act  of  wizardry,  with  a  turn 
here  and  a  jerk  there,  he  bound  Sophie  with  the  max 
imum  of  security  and  the  minimum  of  discomfort  into 
his  largest  chair.  During  the  few  seconds  that  it  took 
him  to  perform  this  feat,  he  had  kept  hand  or  arm 
across  her  mouth  and,  at  the  last,  producing  from  his 
pocket  a  beautiful  large  silk  handkerchief,  he  made 
of  it  a  soft,  effectual  gag,  and  stood  back.  His  face 
gleamed,  happy,  masterful,  triumphant. 

"Now,  you  Sophie  gel,  you  set  there  quiet  and  easy 
till  I  come  back.  Nothin's  going  to  hurt  unless  you 
pull  ag'in'  the  hitch.  Then  it  will  hurt  plenty.  It  ain't 
the  first  time  I've  roped  a  gel  for  her  own  good.  I 
stood  over  Ma  Shippen's  daughter  with  a  gun  all  of 
eight  hours,  atalkin'  to  her  most  of  the  time  too,  and 
her  swearin'  at  me.  I  ain't  agoin'  to  do  no  talkin'  to 
you.  I'm  agoin'  to  herd  in  another  feller  who  can 
talk  better.  Good-bye,  gel.  You  're  pretty  comfort 
able,  ain't  you?" 

Her  great,  astonished,  shining  eyes  made  him 
laugh.  He  bent  down  and  kissed  her  head,  then  ran 


Sowing  the  Wind 


quickly  out  of  the  room.  She  heard  the  key  turn  in 
his  lock. 

So  quietly  and  expeditiously  had  this  deed  of  vio 
lence  been  accomplished  in  Room  90  of  the  River  Ho 
tel  that  Q,  stepping  out  into  the  hall,  met  Sophie's 
father  just  arriving  on  the  fourth  floor.  The  head 
waiter  regarded  him  with  stony  disfavor,  a  prejudice 
started  the  day  of  Q's  arrival  and  since  then  busily 
fostered  by  a  jealous  suspicion  of  the  Westerner's  un- 
conventionalities,  and  his  simultaneous  attentions  to 
Grinscoombery  and  Sophie.  Now  he  thrust  out  his 
paunch  and  breathed  fast  as  Q  addressed  him. 

"Your  daughter  left  a  message  for  you,"  he  lied 
suavely.  "She  said  she'd  gone  out  to  buy  up  the 
town  and  would  n't  be  back  until  late  —  no  more 
dish-  washing  for  her  until  to-morrow  —  savvy?" 

He  smiled  at  the  fat,  small  man's  helpless  pertur 
bation  and  went  past  him  lightly  and  swiftly  down 
the  three  flights,  across  the  lobby,  past  an  unsuspect 
ing  Ben  ton,  and  out  on  the  pavement,  where  he 
hailed  his  friend  and  instructor  in  the  art  of  running 
a  Ford  car. 

<f  I  want  you  to  spur  your  critter  and  get  me  to  West 
Lemmon  on  a  high  lope,"  he  said,  and  the  delighted 
mechanic  pushed  and  pulled  and  turned  and  bounded 
away  from  Main  Street  on  a  blaze  of  dusty  roadway 
toward  the  west. 

Q,  jerking  and  swaying  physically,  thought  steady 
and  straight,  distracted  from  his  own  pain.  He  knew 
that  in  this  mission  his  tongue  was  his  one  available 
weapon  and,  of  all  others,  he  most  mistrusted  it.  He 


216 "Q" 

was  no  talker  —  silence  had  always  been  his  tool. 
But  now  he  must  at  once  and  forever  convince  a  man, 
by  words,  of  Sophie's  need.  It  was  heaven  or  hell  for 
Sophie,  and  only  this  one  man  could  turn  her  back. 
It  was,  at  top  speed,  an  hour's  journey  to  West  Lem- 
mon.  The  dusty  Ford  poked  its  nose  into  the  elm- 
shaded,  broad -street  ed,  pretty  town  at  half -past  five, 
and  Q,  inquiring  the  way  to  Dr.  Laurence  Sales's  of 
fice,  reached  it  a  few  minutes  later  and  found  that  the 
doctor  was  not  at  home.  He  would  be  back,  however, 
probably  in  half  an  hour.  The  assistant  wondered 
sympathetically  if  it  were  the  thought  of  dying  wife 
or  child  at  home  that  drove  the  tall,  bright-eyed  visi 
tor  to  and  fro  across  the  floor  of  the  waiting-room. 
She  ran  out  across  the  pavement  and  caught  Laurie 
by  the  arm  as  he  stepped  from  his  automobile.  She 
was  usually  a  quiet,  prim  little  soul,  but  Q's  lightning 
had  struck  her  into  vitality.  "Oh,  Dr.  Sales,  there's 
a  desperate  man  in  there.  He's  been  waiting  for  half 
an  hour.  He's  so  grim  and  pale.  He  keeps  muttering 
to  himself  —  I  think  it 's  some  sort  of  swearing.  Do 
hurry,  please!" 

Laurie  looked  startled,  smiled  and  went  in,  being 
hurried  through  the  hall  by  the  excited  woman.  He 
dragged  a  jaded  body  and  a  dulled  spirit  into  the  of 
fice,  and  opened  his  folding  doors,  conscious  as  he  did 
so  that  there  was  in  him  scant  sympathy  for  a  new 
need.  There  came  Q,  to  meet  him,  and  drew  him  in 
and  shut  the  doors  with  his  own  hand. 

"Sit  down  there,"  said  Q,  pointing  the  young  doc 
tor  to  his  desk  chair  and  standing  over  him,  tense, 


Sowing  the  Wind  217 

forceful,  charged  with  urgent  feeling.  "You  hev  told 
me  before  now  that  I  ought  to  learn  to  mind  my  busi 
ness.  Twict  I  've  made  a  fool  of  myself  afore  you,  and 
I  swore  I  would  n't  do  it  no  more.  Well,  I  won't.  It 
ain't  no  fool  business  of  rescuing  a  lady  that  don't 
want  rescuing  this  time.  It's  a  real,  honest,  desp'rit 
girl,  and  I  hev  left  her  shut  up  in  a  room  lest  she  go 
to  the  devil,  and  that's  the  truth,  doc,  on  my  honor." 

Laurence  stared  up  at  him,  tired  eyes  not  yet  sure 
that  they  were  not  justified  in  warm  amusement. 

"There's  a  cold-eyed,  thin-lipped  devil  of  a  sales 
man  back  there  at  the  River  Hotel.  A  feller  like  him 
back  in  Sugar  City  onct  made  love  —  that's  what  the 

dirty of  a called  it  —  to  a  soft  little  gel, 

a  biscuit-shooter,  and  after  he  had  quit  her  she  quit 
livin'  by  the  free  use  of  a  revolver  ag'in'  her  throat. 
She  wrote  a  letter  to  her  ma  sayin'  as  how  she  felt 
too  bad  to  go  on  livin'  because  the  way  he'd  used  her 
had  sort  of  cheapened  everything,  and  life  looked 
dirty  to  her.  Notice,  it  was  n't  what  she'd  done  that 
was  drivin'  her  out  of  the  world;  she  could  have  lived 
that  down;  we'd  have  helped  her  and  the  baby,  if 
there  had  been  one;  but  it  was  the  way  he'd  used  her. 
Well,  this  feller  at  the  River  Hotel  is  the  same  sort. 
He's  a  grand  looker,  fine  clothes,  neat  face,  pink  lips, 
big  eyes,  laughs  a  lot,  finds  folks  funny.  He's  got  a 
machine.  Sophie  was  on  her  way  to  him"  —  here 
Laurie  stood  up  slowly  and  faced  Q  across  the  desk 
—  "at  about  four  o'clock  this  afternoon.  She  had  on 
her  best  hat  with  a  flower  in  it,  and  kind  of  a  thin  lit 
tle  blue  suit,  and  her  face  was  white  as  paper,  and  she 


218  "Q" 

was  carrying  a  little  old  bag  in  her  hand.  She  run 
ag'in'  me  and  she  told  me  good-bye.  Listen  now, 
doc,  this  is  the  rest  of  what  she  told  me.  'I'm  not 
going  to  stay  here  any  more.  I  'm  scared  if  I  do  that 
I  '11  get  married  to  Jonas  Ben  ton.  Now  that  there  is  n't 
any  hope  at  all "  -  it  was  extraordinary  how  Sophie's 
very  tone  quivered  in  Q's  low,  drawling  voice  — 
"  '  what's  to  keep  my  courage  up  against  those  two' 
—  she  was  speaking  of  her  pa  and  Benton,  the  long, 
pale  old  feller,  that  means  to  sell  out  his  hotel  and 
marry  her  —  always  plaguing  and  quarreling  and 
threatening  her.  So  she  told  me  good-bye  and  started 
down  the  stairs,  and  it  was  right  there  I  began 
thinking  about  the  drummer  —  and  you.  You  told 
her  you  was  going  to  marry  another  lady?" 

Laurie,  breathing  quickly,  said  "no"  fiercely. 

Q's  eyes  gleamed.  "  She  thought  you  was,  I  reckon. 
She'd  fought  about  long  enough,  and  she  was  hell 
bent  on  going  to  her  drummer.  I  got  atween  her  and 
her  intentions  and  she  tried  to  shove  me  out  of  the 
way.  Her  pa  was  rising  steady  as  cream  from  the 
lower  story,  and  she  said  she'd  holler,  so  I  picked  her 
up  and  took  her  to  a  room,  and  there  I  Ve — persuaded 
her  to  wait.  She  don't  just  know  what  she's  waitin' 
for,  doc,  but  I  was  hopin'  it  might  be  —  for  —  you." 

Laurie  had  sat  down  again.  His  hand  on  the  desk 
was  fisted.  He  stared  unseeingly  at  Q.  In  the  past 
fortnight  Laurie,  too,  had  been  tilting  with  wind 
mills.  He  had  broken  with  a  relentless  damsel  of 
much  social  importance,  and  his  world  had  been  hurt 
ing  him,  though  not  so  sharply  as  hie  heart,  which  had 


Sowing  the  Wind  219 

twisted  him  powerfully  back  to  his  old  love.  He,  too, 
was  tired  of  repression;  the  romanticist,  the  adven 
turer,  was  on  top;  his  spirit  leaped  to  meet  Q's  chal 
lenge.  • 

"They  tell  me  you're  a  first-rate  doc,"  went  on  the 
Westerner,  as  quietly  as  he  had  spoken  from  the  first, 
"and  that  you're  ambitious  in  a  place  where  the 
folks  think  a  lot  of  education  and  manners  and  such. 
Well,  sir,  I  know  places  where  a  doc  is  needed  like  you 
need  God  in  hell.  And  where  a  feller  like  you  that 
wants  to  make  a  big  name  and  a  pile  of  gold  has  only 
to  walk  in  and  write  a  perscription,  and  where  a 
woman  like  Sophie  would  be  a  queen.  Doc,  there 's  a 
city  grown  up  like  a  mushroom  overnight;  it's  an  oil 
city,  and  it's  named  Kinwydden,  after  my  little  old 
ranch  and  me.  I  hev  got  some  say  about  that  city, 
and  it's  full  of  my  friends,  and  if  I  send  a  doc  out 
there  with  his  wife,  the  men  and  women  and  children 
in  that  place  will  throw  up  their  hats  into  the  air. 
Say,  they  '11  mount  horses  and  Ford  cars  to  meet  you 
and  lead  you  in  percession  to  the  finest  house  they  can 
pick  out.  They  want  a  doc.  West  Lemmon  don't 
know  how  to  want  anything  like  they  want  you.  I 
knowed  right  away  at  first  sight  of  you  that  you  was 
a  real  man,  like  I  knowed  Sophie  was  a  real  woman. 
You  sure  like  to  be  free  to  love  the  girl  you  want,  and 
to  live  the  life  you  want,  and  to  be  a  great  man  in 
your  own  way  with  a  free  heart.  Kind  of  way  down 
somewheres  you  want  adventure,  don't  you?  Quit 
doctorin*  a  lot  of  nervous  ladies  and  come  out  to  my 
city.  You'll  make  a  real  name  and  a  real  fortune 


220 "Q" 

there,  Laurie,  and  by  God,  you  '11  have  a  real  woman 
to  help  you  do  it.   Can  I  take  you  back?" 

"No,  Q,  you  can't  take  me  back,  because  I've  got 
to  operate  on  a  case  to-night.  But  you  can  take  back 
a  letter  from  me  to  that  *  Sophie  gel '  —  and  —  look 
here  —  next  week  I'm  going  West." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

REAPING  THE  WHIRLWIND 

THE  "Sophie  gel"  stayed  perforce  where  Q  had  left 
her,  and  her  astonished  senses  gradually  composed 
themselves.  She  had  been  snatched  up  out  of  her  own 
purposes  as  by  a  whirlwind,  and  constrained  to  an  ob 
jective  contemplation  which,  in  a  few  dizzied  mo 
ments,  showed  her  the  fairly  volcanic  abyss  she  had 
escaped.  Nights  of  tossing,  aching  sleeplessness,  days 
of  relentless  persecution,  pain  of  heart  and  bitterness 
of  personal  failure  —  for  she  had  believed  that  Lau 
rie's  love  would  need  only  a  sight  'of  hers  for  its  re 
newal  —  such  hours  and  such  pangs  and  fears,  tuned  to 
a  monotony  of  work  in  kitchen  and  'dining-room,  had 
jangled  the  girl  out  of  her  dreams,  and  it  is  precisely 
when  such  habitual  dreamers  are  so  rudely  waked 
that  they  embrace  prompt  disaster.  Her  attempt  to 
educate  herself,  to  reach  up  to  Laurie,  having 
failed,  all  that  was  vulgar  and  commonplace  in  her 
inheritance  and  circumstance  threw  her  back  vio 
lently  upon  such  consolation  as  the  salesman's  glib- 
ness  had  to  offer.  Not  good  enough  for  Laurie,  she 
was  at  least  good  enough  for  the  handsome  Rupert 
Seaman.  The  wife  of  a  Benton  would  scarcely  prove 
a  less  damaged  vessel  than  the  adventuring  heroine 
of  the  drummer's  romance.  That  enchanted  forest  of 
which  poor,  exquisite  Sophie  with  her  startled  eyes 
was  a  born  denizen,  was  no  training-school  for  the 


222  "Q" 

main  street  of  Sluypenkill  or  for  the  lobby  of  the 
River  Hotel.  When  a  prince  had  alighted  at  her  door, 
Sophie  was  ready :  the  prince  having  thrust  her  out  of 
fairy-land,  she  fell  against  a  ragged  and  sordid  reality 
with  all  the  violence  of  her  rejection. 

There  is  a  theory  abroad  that  goes  by  the  precious 
name  of  realism,  and  which  dogmatically  asserts,  in 
many  diverse  ways,  that  the  mole  on  a  lady's  cheek  is 
more  real  than  the  dimple;  that,  to  be  honest,  one 
must  pluck  the  wings  from  a  butterfly  and  make  notes 
on  its  crawling  powers;  that  marriage  is  a  matter  of 
morning  yawns  rather  than  midnight  kisses;  that  life 
walks  attentively  beside  the  gutter  and  not  along  the 
front  of  palaces;  that,  in  short,  a  man's  big  toe  is  of 
infinitely  greater  moment  than  his  craving  for  beauty. 
But  surely,  whatever  chances  and  changes  mortify 
and  afflict  our  physical  lives,  the  life  of  our  thought 
may  always  be  a  journey  of  enchantment.  If  we  work 
in  a  department  store  and  travel  thereto  in  a  subway, 
clinging  to  a  strap,  nevertheless,  we  remain  eternally 
seekers  of  buried  treasure;  if  we  wash  the  baby's  un 
derclothes  and  make  its  bed,  Mary,  the  Madonna, 
must  have  done  no  less;  yet  what  we  remember  is  that 
she  "carried  His  sayings  in  her  heart."  Perhaps  a 
baby's  first  recognizing  smile  is  melodrama,  but  it  is 
at  least  as  real  as  his  colic.  All  of  which  is  to  defend  a 
predilection.  A  realist  would  doubtless  find  greater 
profit  in  watching  Mrs.  Huggs  cleaning  her  doorstep 
than  in  watching  Mrs.  Huggs  weep  with  her  broken 
heart.  She  did  both  daily.  And  Sophie,  washing  dishes 
and  blowing  tears  from  a  reddened  nose,  would  be 


Reaping  the  Whirlwind 223 

more  convincing  than  Sophie  wandering  in  a  land  of 
faerie  "  where  no  birds  sing."  To  such  realists,  in  fact, 
the  telling  of  a  tale  must  forever  remain  a  sheer  ab 
surdity,  for  what  makes  the  chronicle  of  a  Q  or  of  a 
Sophie  significant  is  not  the  acquiescence  in  circum 
stance,  but  the  rebellion  against  it.  When  Q  caught 
Sophie  in  his  arms  and  roped  her  to  his  chair,  he  was 
acting  more  simply,  naturally,  and  inevitably  than 
when  he  constrained  himself  to  use  Bill's  services 
with  the  "buzz-box."  The  ascent  and  descent  in  the 
elevator  remained  always  to  him  a  romantic  and  as 
tonishing  adventure.  He  understood  far  more  readily 
what  Sophie  had  been  about  to  do  and  her  reasons  for 
doing  it  than  he  understood  Heloise's  deliberate  sip 
ping  of  Ferdy's  temptation  while  she  held  her  rescuer 
off  until  such  time  as  the  poison  began  to  take  danger 
ous  effect.  The  ways  of  mental  experiment  were  to 
him  indeed  bewildering,  but  physical  adventure  was 
the  very  breath  of  his  being.  Following  his  instinct, 
he  would,  in  one  riotous,  satisfying  week,  have  beaten 
up  Dr.  Sales,  mopped  up  the  lobby  floor  with  Benton, 
held  up  Miss  Selda  for  a  fat  purse  for  her  brother  and 
niece,  shot  Ferdy  through  the  head,  married  Laurie 
to  Sophie  at  the  muzzle  of  a  gun,  and  galloped  off  with 
Heloise  before  him  on  his  saddle.  Of  course,  this  is 
what,  in  the  course  of  a  six  months'  struggle,  he  was 
trying  to  do.  Condense  his  time  limit  to  a  week  and 
you  will  have  the  un trammeled  man  at  work.  But  Q 
was  not  a  superman,  and  convention,  the  cold  weight 
of  circumstance,  had  their  ropes  upon  him. 

Sophie  was  the  first  victim  of  his  unleashed  sin- 


224  "Q" 

cerity.  She  sat,  feeling  in  body  the  weight  of  his 
hands,  the  constriction  of  his  rope  and  scarf,  and  the 
quick,  laughing  touch  of  his  lips  on  her  forehead,  and 
feeling  in  spirit  a  beatific  release.  Life  had  been  taken 
out  of  her  hands,  and  she  realized  that  she  was  pro 
foundly  tired,  that  her  nerves  were  stretched  almost 
to  the  breaking  point.  Coercion  was  a  rest.  She  re 
laxed  in  the  chair,  leaned  back  her  head,  and,  through 
half-closed,  still  astonished  eyes,  wondered  what  was 
to  become  of  her.  Q  would  go  to  Laurie,  was  on  his 
way.  Would  he  rope  him  and  carry  him  back  and  lay 
him  at  her  feet?  She  was  seized  with  sobbing  laughter 
so  that  her  breath  shook  against  her  bonds.  Her  heart 
swelled,  tears  fell  from  her  eyes.  Q  was  her  god.  She 
could  have  followed  him  to  the  world's  end.  She 
would  now  have  kissed  his  strong,  gentle,  constrain 
ing  hands.  She  was  safe,  silent,  hid  from  persecution, 
from  passion,  from  ugly  opportunity  —  love's  pris 
oner,  a  prisoner  of  hope.  Would  Laurie  come?  Leave 
that  to  Q!  She  looked  at  her  shabby  little  leather 
bag,  caught  up  by  the  whirlwind  that  had  caught  her 
and  now  rolled  over  on  its  side  in  a  corner  of  the  room, 
and  she  wondered  quiveringly  how  she  could  ever  have 
packed  it  for  so  mad  a  purpose  To  be  lifted  forcibly 
and  tied  up  was  a  marvelous  clarifier,  it  would  seem, 
of  one's  imagination  Here  she,  Sophie,  sat  —  safe, 
sane,  and  clean,  waiting  for  her  love,  when,  by  now, 
left  to  her  own  will,  she  would  be  traveling  through 
the  dust  in  Rupert  Seaman's  car,  with  his  arm  about 
her  and  a  sick,  hot  memory  and  dread  of  kisses.  What 
hardening  of  her  imagination,  what  disassociation  of 


Reaping  the  Whirlwind 


her  very  personality  had  left  her  free  to  such  inten 
tions?  Hupert,  by  now,  had  gone  off,  alone  and  angry, 
to  console  himself  with  less  uncertain  adventures. 
The  sounds  of  the  street  rattled  and  hummed  across 
her  dazed  consciousness.  Below  her,  Mariana  Benton 
stepped  here  and  there  from  closet  to  bureau,  getting 
herself  ready  for  her  evening  off.  Now  she  had  pulled 
up  a  chair.  She  was  probably  preparing  to  curl 
her  bang.  Sure  enough,  a  scorched  smell  presently 
drifted  in  at  Q's  window.  Sophie  waited,  wishing  that 
she  could  get  rid  of  her  gag,  which  was  beginning  to 
be  very  uncomfortable.  She  would  not  cry  out  now; 
Q  might  have  trusted  her.  She  began  to  work  with 
her  tongue  and  lips  and  jaw  to  loosen  the  scarf.  My, 
but  he  was  clever  at  tying  a  person  up  ! 

Mariana,  below,  went  out  of  her  room  and  banged 
the  door.  She  would  be  going  out,  thought  Sophie, 
with  her  young  man,  the  drug-store  clerk.  Mariana 
had  always  been  shrewd  and  sensible  and  kind,  even 
to  a  prospective  stepmother.  She  had  a  vast  amount 
of  philosophy,  that  curled,  manicured,  indifferent 
being.  There  would  never  be  a  folly  in  Mariana's  life 
—  nor  a  flight.  Sophie  watched  Q's  curtains  trail 
sluggishly  in  and  out  across  the  sill.  The  smell  of 
scorched  hair  persisted.  Mariana  must  have  all  but 
burnt  off  her  bang.  There  followed  upon  the  smell  a 
wisp  of  smoke;  some  blackened  fragments  drifted 
across  the  open  square  of  sky.  Sophie  straightened  a 
little  in  her  chair  and  stared  at  the  whirling  black  bits. 
They  looked  like  burnt  lace,  pieces  of  a  lace  curtain. 
Another  and  denser  scarf  of  smoke  was  sucked  in  at 


226 "Q" 

the  window.  It  had  a  certain  heat.  Something  was 
burning  down  below  in  Mariana's  room,  her  curling- 
iron  heater  attached  to  the  gas-jet,  left  burning  near 
the  window  curtain  on  the  bureau  —  that  was  it  — 
Mariana's  curtains  must  be  on  fire.  And  Mariana  had 
gone  out  five  minutes  ago.  Sophie  thought  dazedly 
that  she  ought  to  give  an  alarm. 

The  alarm  was  given  by  a  small  boy  in  the  street 
who,  five  slow,  queer  minutes  later,  shrilled  out, 
"Fire!  Fire!"  That  cry  took  a  sharp  stitch  in  So 
phie's  heart.  The  hotel  was  burning.  Inside,  along 
the  hall,  she  could  hear  running  steps;  outside,  the 
street  began  to  hurry,  to  clatter,  to  hold  an  increas 
ing  panic  of  foot  and  voice.  Just  below  her  was  the 
heart  of  the  fire  and  here  above  it  she  was  tied  and 
gagged.  She  began  to  struggle  and  that,  true  to  Q's 
'Warning,  tightened  the  hitch.  It  hurt.  But  even  if  it 
did  hurt,  hurt  to  agony,  she  must  get  free,  must  scream, 
must  attract  help.  She  could  n't  just  sit  there,  could 
she?  and  be  burned  alive,  while  Laurie  was  on  his  way 
to  her?  Oh,  how  the  cords  cut  and  seared  like  flame! 
It  would  feel  like  that  when  the  fire  reached  her. 
There  was  a  terrible  tumult  outside  in  the  street;  in 
side,  people  were  running  about.  They  came  to  Ma 
riana's  room.  The  door  wTas  smashed  in.  There  fol 
lowed  confused  shouting;  the  smoke  went  up  past  her 
window  in  big  black  clouds  full  of  whirling  sparks. 
She  could  not  fight  Q's  hitch  now;  it  was  cutting  her 
wrists  to  the  bone  and  tightening  horribly  across  her 
chest  and  about  her  knees.  But  the  gag  had  loosened. 
In  her  hideous  increasing  panic  she  could  not  make 


Reaping  the  Whirlwind 


out  the  cries  and  shouts,  only  she  knew  that  the 
clamor  was  growing.  Yes,  there  was  the  frantic, 
outrageous  growing  cry  of  the  fire-engine.  Here 
the  gag  slipped  and  Sophie,  flinging  herself  convul 
sively  back  in  her  chair,  shrieked  and  shrieked  and 
screamed  aloud,  "  Oh,  help  !  Help!  Help!  Save  me! 
I'll  be  burned  alive!" 

By  the  time  Benton  and  Sophie's  father,  with  a 
fireman's  help,  had  broken  open  the  door  of  her 
prison,  Sophie  was  entirely  incapable  of  reassurance. 
They  untied  her,  while  they  swore,  sick  with  anger 
at  what  they  saw,  and  she  fought  them  with  all  her 
strength.  The  fire,  they  told  her,  was  out;  it  had  been 
nothing  worse  than  a  burning  curtain;  they  begged 
her  to  explain  her  plight.  But  she  could  neither  un 
derstand  nor  explain  anything.  She  had  to  be  held 
down  on  Q's  bed  by  her  father  and  Bill,  while  Benton 
ran  for  Dr.  Sales. 

After  his  deed  of  lingual  valor,  Q  mounted  his  taxi- 
cab  and  went  back  to  Sluypenkill  at  top  .  speed.  He 
had  a  letter  from  Laurie  in  his  pocket  and  his  fancy 
pleased  itself  with  a  vision  of  Sophie's  reading  face. 
He  compared  the  probable  happy  issue  of  his  adven 
ture  with  that  other  masterful  beneficence  concern 
ing  "  Ma  Shippen's  daughter."  "If  I  was  only  as  good 
at  rescuing  me  from  myself  as  I  am  at  rescuing  ladies 
from  theirselves,  I'd  be  a  right  successful  feller,"  he 
decided,  and  sadness  steeped  his  face,  his  body  relax 
ing  on  the  cushioned  seat.  That  strong,  confident 
will  of  his  tightened  its  grip  on  his  aching  heart.  He 


228 "Q" 

had  been  "hurt  bad  "  by  Heloise.  She  had  "sure  done 
him  in,"  but  in  spite  of  her,  he  would  win  out.  He 
would  break  her  proud,  high,  cold,  and  willful  heart 
to  his  tenderness  as  he  had  gentled  the  mad-eyed 
broncs  to  his  control.  There  had  been  moments  when 
her  eyes  had  been  the  eyes  of  girlhood,  sweet,  fright 
ened,  una wakened  eyes;  faltering  —  and  held  by  his. 
He  would  believe  those  eyes  even  when  the  lips  de 
nied  their  loyalty.  He  made  an  effort  of  faith  that 
was  almost  physical,  crudely  he  believed  in  a  sort  of 
magic;  defeat  came  only  to  those  that  believed  in  de 
feat.  There  would  probably  be  a  message  from  Hel 
oise  waiting  for  him  at  the  hotel,  and  he  would  have 
suffered  all  day  from  an  unnecessary  pain.  So  impa 
tient  was  he  to  get  the  message  that  he  only  noticed 
without  any  impulse  to  inquiry  that  there  was  a 
ragged  remnant  of  a  crowd  about  the  front  of  the 
River  Hotel,  small  boys  and  dogs,  still  hopeful  of  a 
renewal  of  the  splendid  chance  of  a  conflagration,  and 
he  sprang  up  the  steps,  through  the  glass  doors,  and 
half  across  the  lobby  before  he  noticed  Benton  drawn 
up  near  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  obviously  challeng 
ing  him.  Then,  with  an  abrupt  hardening  of  nerves, 
Q  stopped,  eyes  narrowed,  and  face  grim.  The  man 
before  him  was  changed  with  hatred,  his  sallow,  oval 
countenance  worked,  and  malice  possessed  his  lack 
luster  brown  eyes.  He  came  close  to  Q  and  whispered 
into  his  face. 

"You  come  upstairs  with  me  and  see  what  you've 
done  —  before  we  turn  you  over  to  the  authorities." 

"Without  a  word  Q  followed  him  into  the  elevator, 


Reaping  the  Whirlwind  229 

and  was  more  startled  by  Bill's  wild  pallor  and  avoid 
ing  eye  than  by  Benton's  unaccustomed  belligerence. 
He  allowed  himself  to  be  gripped  by  the  arm  in  Ben- 
ton's  cadaverous  hand  and  led  to  the  door  of  Room 
90.  From  inside  came  a  monotonous  sad  murmur, 
broken  by  little  startled  cries  of  protest. 

"Her  father's  in  there,"  said  Benton,  "and  Dr. 
Sales.  He 's  been  working  over  her,  but  we  can't  get 
any  sense  out  of  her.  She's  clean  out  of  her  head." 
He  ground  his  teeth  and  spoke  between  them.  "Per 
haps  you  can  explain." 

Q  stepped  quickly  into  the  room. 

At  his  entrance,  Sophie's  father  looked  up  from  a 
frightened  contemplation  of  the  girl,  and  Dr.  Sales 
rose  from  a  chair  near  the  bed.  Benton  locked  the 
door  and  placed  himself  against  it. 

Q  moved  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  bent  his  eyes 
upon  Sophie.  He  was  white  and  scared. 

"What  happened? "  he  asked  in  a  nervous  whisper. 

Dr.  Sales  was  spokesman. 

"You  would  probably  have  got  away  with  it,  my 
man,"  he  said,  "if  there  had  n't  been  a  fire  in  the  ho 
tel.  The  curtains  of  Miss  Benton's  room  just  below 
this  one  caught  fire.  There  was  an  alarm  and  —  your 
victim,  naturally  fearing  that  she  would  be  burned 
to  death,  was  frightened  out  of  her  wits.  She  had 
managed  to  get  rid  of  your  ingenious  gag  and  she 
screamed  for  help.  After  a  while  her  people  here 
located  her  cries  and,  with  the  help  of  a  fireman,  broke 
down  your  door  and  found  her  in  this  terrible  condi 
tion.  Her  wrists  —  as  you  see"  —  he  lifted  one  of 


£30 "Q" 

Sophie's  hands  —  "are  cut  almost  to  the  bone;  her 
neck  is  raw  where  the  rope  burnt  her.  But  of  course 
the  worst  result  of  your  brutal  handling  is  to  her 
nervous  system,  perhaps  to  her  mind.  We  have  n't 
been  able  to  get  a  sane  word  out  of  her.  We  insist 
now,  sir,  upon  a  full  accounting  from  you." 

Q  faltered  to  Sophie's  side  and  bent  over  her.  He 
was  shaking  from  head  to  foot;  all  his  splendid  com 
posure  and  aplomb  had  left  him. 

"You  —  Sophie  gel,"  he  urged  and  put  his  hand 
beseechingly  upon  her. 

She  stared  up  at  him  from  wild  eyes  and  shrieked 
out,  "Don't  let  him  hurt  me!"  He  shrank  back  and 
was  further  propelled  by  the  head  waiter,  who,  dart 
ing  round  the  bed,  struck  at  him  with  two  frenzied 
fists.  Q  threw  up  his  head.  He  had  a  dazed  look.  But 
behind  the  brilliant  pain  and  fright  of  his  eyes,  his 
brain  was  working  coolly  now  and  carefully.  He 
must  n't,  of  course,  betray  Sophie's  attempted  indis 
cretion;  he  must  n't  tell  about  the  drummer.  There 
was  really  no  explanation  he  could  give.  She  was  in 
no  condition  to  read  Laurie's  letter,  nor  could  he  trust 
any  one  of  these  three  guardians  of  hers  to  read  or 
to  deliver  it.  As  usual,  he  had  only  the  old  familiar 
weapon  —  silence.  Holding  back  gently  with  one 
hand  Sophie's  infuriated  father,  and  looking  quickly 
from  one  to  the  other  of  the  two  men,  he  drawled  out 
reasonably. 

"I  ain't  blamin'  you  at  all,  gentlemen.  It 's  jest  the 
way  I  'd  feel  myself.  I  hev  sure  made  a  fool  of  myself, 
maybe  worse.  I  can  only  tell  you  that  it  ain't  any  of 


Reaping  the  Whirlwind  231 

it  her  doin's.  It  was  a  fool  experiment  of  mine  with 
nothin'  bad  back  of  it  —  jest  plumb  childishness,  but 
you  don't  want  to  believe  that,  naturally.  So  I  ain't 
expectin'  you  to.  You  keep  your  hands  off'n  me,  be 
cause  I  don't  want  a  row,  and  tell  me  what  you  want 
me  to  do.  Keep  rememberin'  that,  for  the  gel's  sake, 
you  'd  better  make  as  little  excitement  as  possible.  I 
could  n't  feel  badder  'n  I  do  right  now,  if  that  helps 
your  feelin'  any,  and  I'll  do  anything  you  say." 

"First,"  spluttered  Ben  ton,  "you  get  out  of  my 
hotel  and  don't  show  your  dirty  face  here  again." 

"I  thought  you  'd  sold  your  hotel,  Mr.  Benton." 

"G—  d—  you!  Don't  talk  back  to  me.  Until  the 
new  owner  takes  possession  I'm  in  charge  here  and 
—  you  walk  out!" 

"Yes,  sir,  and  quite  right.  Next."  And  he  turned 
to  Sophie's  father. 

The  pimpled  waiter  was  breathing  short  and  hard. 
"Damages,"  he  snuffled,  "that's  all  I  gotter  say. 
Damages."  He  pointed  to  the  girl,  lying  quiet  now 
under  the  effects  of  a  narcotic.  "You  may  of  ruined 
my  gel  for  life.  You  gotter  pay." 

"Yes,  sir.  That's  fair  too.  I'll  pay.  And  now  — 
doc!" 

Here  his  calmness  froze  to  something  that  was  both 
ice  and  iron.  He  drew  closer  to  Sales.  The  big  loose 
figure  held  its  ground  and  answered  softly. 

"I'll  see  you  outside,  Kinwydden.  I  believe  it 
would  be  altogether  unwise  for  you  to  leave  Sluypen- 
kill  at  once.  Some  version  of  this  story  is  bound  to 
get  about  the  place.  You  see,  the  fireman  helped  to 
break  down  the  door. " 


232  "Q" 

For  the  first  time  a  fear  of  the  consequences  of  this 
escapade  to  himself  and  to  his  own  plans  smote  Q  and 
flushed  his  whiteness. 

"Sure.  You'd  see  to  its  gettin'  about  in  its  best 
clothes,  would  n't  you,  doc?  " 

He  glanced  once  at  Sophie  and  went  out  into  the 
hall,  followed  by  Dr.  Sales.  They  faced  each  other 
in  the  hallway. 

"I  shall  certainly  see  that  the  story  reaches  the 
minds  of  any  one  here  who  might  otherwise  be  in 
clined  to  admit  you  to  their  acquaintance,  Mr.  Kin- 
wydden."  He  paused,  his  hands  sliding  across  his 
waistcoat;  his  small,  spark-like  eyes  snapped.  "As  I 
once  warned  you,  I  have  run  two  young  men  already 
out  of  Sluypenkill." 

Q  seemed  not  to  have  heard  him.  "The  —  the 
Sophie  gel  —  will  get  all  right?"  he  faltered,  and 
Dr.  Sales,  smiling  faintly,  turned  the  screw. 

"If  she  does  n't  die  in  convulsions,  she  will  recover 
physically,  but  I  doubt  if  she  ever  gets  back  her  poor 
disordered  wits." 

Q  leaned  against  the  wall,  his  hand  over  his  eyes; 
his  forehead  slowly  was  covered  with  fine  small  beads 
of  sweat.  "O  God,  that  ain't  the  truth,  doc.  I  know 
you  hate  me  like  a  rattler,  but  I  want  you  please  to 
let  me  off  on  that.  It  ain't  the  truth." 

"As  far  as  I  know,  it  is  the  truth.  Your  methods 
are  a  bit  too  rough  for  us  here  in  Sluypenkill." 

"I  ain't  agoin'  to  put  my  trust  in  you,"  said  Q.  He 
said  it  twice,  like  a  prayer,  a  sort  of  litany.  He  felt 
for  Laurie's  letter  in  his  pocket  and  then  moved 
blindly  toward  the  stairs. 


Reaping  the  Whirlwind  233 

"It  is  entirely  owing  to  our  consideration  for  the 
poor  girl's  good  name,  you  understand,  Kinwydden, 
that  we  are  allowing  you  freedom  from  physical  re 
straint.  I  hope  you  understand  that  you  are  not  to  be 
allowed  to  remain  any  longer  in  this  place."  Sud 
denly  he  became  venomous.  "We've  had  enough  of 
you." 

"I  better  not  quit,  had  I,  until  we  know  how  the 
Sophie  gel  gets  on?" 

"Perhaps  not.  If  she  dies  —  " 

Silence.  Q  stood  straight,  like  a  soldier  waiting  for 
execution. 

"You  may  be  wanted  for  manslaughter.  Hush!" 
—  for  lightning  had  passed  through  the  tall,  lissome 
figure  —  "  they  're  bringing  the  girl  out  of  your  room. 
You  will  want  to  go  back  for  your  things." 

The  door  of  Room  90,  in  fact,  had  slowly  opened, 
and  between  them,  the  head  waiter  and  Benton  car 
ried  Sophie  along  the  hall.  Dr.  Sales  and  Q  stood  to 
see  her  pass,  a  peaceful,  silent,  broken  figure. 


CHAPTER  XX 

SANCTUARY 

RUMOR'S  tongue  quickly  took  up  the  tale.  It  hardly 
needed  Dr.  Sales's  liberal  assistance,  so  fast  it  spread 
through  all  the  ranks  of  Sluypenkill  society.  Q,  mov 
ing  over  that  very  night  to  Mrs.  Stopper  with  his  bag 
in  his  hand,  was  met  at  the  door  by  a  nervous,  quickly 
breathing  woman  who  brushed  away  at  an  imaginary 
crumb.  "No,  no,  Mr.  Kinwydden,  indeed  I  can't  let 
out  a  room  to  you.  I  know  I  told  you  I  had  one  and 
I'm  real  sorry,  but  it  isn't  possible.  Not  that  I'm 
ready  to  think  evil  nor  give  any  heed  to  scandal,  but 
that  when  .a  story  comes  direct  to  you  and  —  did  n't 
I  always  say  that  it  could  n't  be  done  —  not  in  civi 
lized  society,  calling  on  Miss  Heloise  Grinscoombe  at 
the  same  time  and  all.  It's  really  too  bad.  It  will 
bring  Miss  Selda's  pride  down  to  the  dust  and  I'm 
not  saying  it  won't  be  a  wholesome  lesson,  but  my 
business  is  to  support  the  columns  of  society,  Mr. 
Kinwydden,  and  kind  as  you  were  about  Sweetie  and 
a  pleasant  visitor,  I  don't  owe  you  any  obligations  — 
Oh,  are  you  going  like  that  without  a  word?" 

Q  paused  on  the  step  and  looked  back  at  the  ex 
cited  little  figure.  The  street  lamp  lighted  it  dimly 
from  in  front  and  the  electric  bulb  in  the  hall  more 
brilliantly  from  behind.  It  looked  under  the  two 
lights  a  solid  small  body  enough,  resisting  radiance. 
As  Q  looked,  Sweetie  bounced  out  of  the  house  and 


Sanctuary  235 


ran  between  his  legs,  came  back  to  rub  against  them 
and  purred  in  an  emphatic  key.  He  picked  it  up  and, 
smiling,  handed  it  to  its  owner. 

"I  don't  know  rightly  what  I  can  say,  Mrs.  Stop 
per,"  he  murmured,  "except  that  I  thank  you  for 
your  cake  and  tea  parties." 

"Then  you  can't  explain  any  of  it?  Perhaps  I  could 
take  your  story  to  Miss  Grinscoombe." 

"No.  But  thank  you  kindly.  I  was  a  plumb  fool, 
and  I  look  like  a  plumb  villain,  and  it  can't  be  helped 
• —  not  for  the  present.  I  '11  pack  my  stuff  elsewhere  " 

—  he  hesitated  —  "or  perhaps  I  can  leave  it  here  and 
come  back  for  it  when  I  've  located  a  good  camping- 
ground." 

"Why,  Mr.  Kinwydden,  I  don't  know  what  to  say 

—  people  seeing  it  there  —  as  they  say  —  actions 
speak  louder  than  words  and  it  might  lead  to  in 
quiries  or  talk  saying  that  I  was  renting  a  room  to 
you  —  " 

"I  savvy.   Good-night  to  you,  ma'am." 

She  came  half-across  her  porch,  frantically  brush 
ing  at  the  imaginary  crumb.  "But  I'd  be  the  first  to 
welcome  you  back  if  the  clouds  roll  past,  Mr.  Kin 
wydden,"  and  doubtfully  she  added  a  "Good-bye." 

"Oh,  it  ain't  good-bye,"  he  said  from  the  gate, 
which  he  had  just  reached.  "It's  just  good-evening," 
and  he  went  swiftly  down  the  street. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  he  came  to  Mary  Grins- 
coombe's  door.  He  was  still  carrying  his  bag  and  his 
shoes  were  dusty.  The  door  stood  open  and  Q,  set 
ting  down  his  burden,  stepped  in  and  came  to  the 


236  "Q" 

threshold  of  the  tiny  sitting-room.  Directly  before 
him,  blocking  his  path,  loomed  Dr.  Sales. 

"I  might  'a'  knowed,"  said  Q,  and  turned  to  go. 

Dr.  Sales  moved  back  across  the  room  and  dis 
closed  Mary  rising  with  a  flushed  face  and  startled 
eyes  from  her  low  chair  beneath  the  lamp,  and  little 
Mr.  Grinscoombe  peering  above  fitted  finger-tips. 
Q  saw  the  small,  familiar  room  suddenly  through  a 
blur.  He  made  out  an  instant  later  that  Mary  was 
standing  in  front  of  him,  holding  out  her  hand.  He 
took  it  with  a  quick,  wordless  gasp. 

Then  Sales  spoke. 

"Mary!  Mary!"  he  said,  and  clacked  his  tongue. 

Mary  turned  from  Q,  keeping  her  hand  upon  his 
arm,  and  threw  the  concentrated  brightness  of  her 
face  upon  Sales. 

"You  did  n't  really  think  Papa  and  I  were  going  to 
turn  Q  out,  did  you?"  she  asked,  "because  of  the 
story  you  Ve  just  been  telling  us?  In  the  first  place, 
I'd  have  to  hear  his  side  -of  it;  in  the  second  place,  I 
don't  turn  away  a  friend  when  he's  in  trouble." 

And  "Good-night,  William,"  said  Henry  Grins 
coombe,  speaking  suddenly  from  Mars. 

Q  spent  that  night  on  the  wicker  lounge  where  he 
had  once  endured  an  operation  at  the  hand  of  Dr. 
Sales.  He  spent  the  night  as  one  spends  one's  blood, 
drop  by  drop,  a  night  of  never-to-be-forgotten  mis 
ery,  during  the  long,  slow  hours  of  which  he  thought 
only  of  Sophie.  He  went  over  with  terrible  painstak 
ing  every  detail  of  his  dealings  with  her  and  cursed 
their  clumsiness,  their  brutal  ineffectually.  Hith- 


Sanctuary  237 


erto,  experience  had  taught  Q  perhaps  a  dangerous 
degree  of  self-reliance.  He  had  learned  that  in  emer 
gencies,  the  body,  of  instinct  and  promptly,  does  the 
one  safe  and  necessary  thing,  so,  like  most  men  of  ac 
tion,  he  had  been  early  freed  from  imaginative  fear  of 
events  to  come.  Here  in  this  more  complicated  world 
his  faith  had  failed  to  justify  itself.  Yielding  to  im 
pulses,  he  had  acted,  blindly  and  foolishly;  absurd  or 
fatal  results  had  followed  his  actions.  He  had  hurt 
other  people.  Perhaps  in  truth  he  was  now  a  mur 
derer.  He  remembered  a  man  he  had  shot  out  there, 
shot  him  necessarily  in  self-defense.  It  had  been  bad, 
but  he  had  never  sweated  over  it  like  this.  An  agony  of 
remorse  and  nervous  dread  tormented  his  nerves.  He 
sat  up  once  or  twice  gasping  like  a  little  boy  in  a  night 
mare.  If  Sophie  were  dying  now — !  If  she  were 
mad  — !  He  clutched  at  the  pocket  containing  Lau 
rie's  letter  and,  remembering  his  vision  of  her  reading 
face,  he  put  his  head  down  on  his  arms  and  wept. 
Early  daybreak,  before  Mary  had  stirred,  brought  a 
letter  to  the  door  by  the  hand  of  a  stray  messenger. 
It  was  addressed  to  Kinwydden  in  a  flowery,  shaded 
hand. 

You  are  hardened  enough,  I  know,  to  be  careless  of  most 
consequences,  but  when  it  comes  to  bringing  real  disaster 
upon  the  lives  of  people  that  have  signally  befriended  you, 
I  can't  help  hoping,  in  spite  of  evidence  to  the  contrary, 
that  this  appeal  may  have  some  consequence.  Your  repu 
tation  in  Sluypenkill  having  become  overnight  an  evil  smell 
in  the  nostrils  of  the  community,  you  may  imagine  what 
an  effect  your  presence  in  Mary  Grinscoombe's  house  will 
have  upon  her  life  and  reputation.  You  can  go  back  to  the 


238 "Q" 

West,  but  she  must  necessarily  stay  here.  Believe  me,  you 
are  doing  her  terrible,  irreparable  injury. 

SALES 

Q  hurried  back  from  the  door,  which  he  had  opened, 
got  hastily  together  the  few  articles  he  had  scattered 
about  the  sitting-room,  sat  down  at  Mary's  table,  and 
wrote  a  few  lines. 

Thanks  to  you,  ma'am,  and  your  father,  I  have  passed  a 
comfortable  night.N  I  will  see  you  again  when  the  clouds 
roll  by  —  as  Mrs.  Stopper  puts  it.  If  I  have  made  mistakes 
in  this  writing,  it  is  because  I  feel  pretty  bad  about  not  see 
ing  you  to  tell  you  my  story.  I  will  come  back  and  tell  you 
the  whole  truth.  Don't  you  put  no  faith  in  doc.  I  am  not 
telling  you  good-bye. 

Q. 

This  he  folded  and  set  up  in  a  conspicuous  place, 
and,  lifting  his  bag  he  went  out  into  the  wan  and 
empty  street.  And  this  time,  wearily  but  with  cer 
tainty  of  a  welcome,  he  turned  his  face  toward  the 
Grinscoombe  Mill. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  VOICE  OF  RUMOR 

DR.  SALES  straddled  below  the  portrait  of  Sir  Sydney 
Grinscoombe  and  visibly  exulted.  He  swelled  out 
chest  and  stomach,  blew  up  his  cheeks,  and  let  the 
sparkle  of  victory  snap  from  his  eyes.  His  voice  could 
not  constrain  itself  to  soberness;  its  usual  flowing  sur 
face  was  vivaciously  rippled. 

"I  won't  say  'I  told  you  so,'  though  I  might!  You 
turned  out  your  protege  in  the  very  nick  of  time, 
Selda  —  the  very  last  nick  —  if  the  figure  will  pass." 
He  chuckled  happily. 

Miss  Selda's  face  looked  as  though  it  had  forgotten 
happiness.  She  held  her  stiff  pose  and  her  stony  gaze 
with  a  strained  effort.  There  was  no  evidence  in  her 
skin  or  lips  of  blood;  some  thin  and  acid  fluid  filled 
her  narrow  veins. 

"Then  in  some  way  since  the  day  before  yesterday 
Q  has  justified  your  opinion  of  him?"  There  was  a 
note  almost  of  anxiety  in  her  impeccable,  dry  speech. 

Sales  struggled  against  a  smile,  managing  to  purse 
his  soft  mouth  judicially,  the  whole  outer  man  a  visi 
ble  medium  for  the  antagonistic  modelings  of  sincere 
emotion  and  of  hypocrisy.  "He  has  indeed!  A  pity! 
All  that  romance  of  the  West.  Heloise  must  be  told." 

"What  must  Heloise  be  told?"  The  girl's  voice 
announced  her  entrance,  an  ironical  young  voice  and 
a  languid  intrusion  which  took  her  only  halfway  to- 


240 "Q" 

ward  them,  and  left  her  poised  for  an  immediate  de 
parture.  What  Sales  told  kept  her  there,  however, 
and  flushed  her  pink  from  the  lace  collar  of  her  gown 
to  the  smooth  dark  gold  of  her  hair. 

"Q  was  run  out  of  the  River  Hotel  yesterday,  and 
every  door  in  Sluypenkill  is  shut  against  him.  I  be 
lieve" —  a  chuckle  broke  past  his  control  like  an 
escaping  gnome  —  "he  has  found  a  refuge  with  a 
drunken  mill-hand,  a  man  you  dismissed  some  time 
ago  by  my  advice,  but  who  has  since,  for  some  reason 
or  another,  been  taken  on  again. " 

"  I  took  him  back  at  Q's  request.  The  man  had  lost 
his  wife  and  had  a  family.  He  stopped  drinking. " 

"Well  —  well!  —  To  go  on,  Q  doesn't  dare  run 
away  because  he  knows  such  a  move  would  lead  in 
stantly  to  his  arrest. " 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Dr.  Sales !"  Heloise 
cried  out  sharply. 

"About  a  very  serious  scandal,  my  dear,  not  really 
fit  for  your  ears,  but,  unfortunately  —  a  necessary 
warning. " 

Heloise  moved  angrily. 

"Last  night,  Q  was  put  out  of  the  hotel  for  an  abom 
inable  attempt  upon  Sophie,  a  waitress.  There  was  an 
alarm  of  fire,  the  curtains  in  the  room  immediately 
below  Kinwydden's  caught.  There  was  a  great  deal 
of  confusion  and  alarm.  In  the  midst  of  it,  Benton 
heard  a  persistent  and  terrified  screaming  for  help. 
He  and  the  head  waiter  traced  it  to  Q's  room,  which 
they  found  locked  on  the  outside.  With  the  help  of  a 
fireman  they  broke  down  the  door  and  found  Sophie 


The  Voice  of  Rumor 241 

roped,  if  you  please,  in  the  style  of  Western  melo 
drama  to  Q's  biggest  chair  and  gagged  with  his  silk 
handkerchief.  She'd  managed  to  work  her  lips  free 
from  the  gag  and  was  beside  herself  with  fear.  She 
must  have  been  pretty  well  man-handled,  for  she  was 
in  dreadful  shape,  clothes  torn,  hair  disheveled,  wrists 
cut  to  the  bone,  and  out  of  her  senses,  hysterical. 
They  called  me  in,  but  we  could  n't  get  anything  out 
of  her.  Kinwydden,  returning  from  some  hurried 
expedition  —  he  probably  meant  to  take  Sophie  off 
with  him  last  night,  perhaps  he  was  out  after  a  drug, 
I  wish  we  'd  searched  him !  —  and  knowing  nothing  of 
the  fire,  walked  calmly  into  Benton's  clutches  and  was 
brought  face  to  face  with  his  victim.  I've  never  seen 
so  abject  and  cringing  a  rogue  as  he  looked  —  all  the 
bravado  turned  to  fear.  He  refused  to  explain.  Of 
course,  they're  trying  to  keep  it  quiet  for  the  girl's 
sake.  They  pitched  him  out  of  the  hotel  —  person 
ally  I  think  they  ought  then  and  there  to  have  locked 
him  up,  but  Benton  would  n't  have  it.  They  thought 
they  could  keep  the  whole  story  quiet,  which  of  course 
they  can't.  He'll  probably  try  to  sneak  off.  Well, 
ladies  —  a  nice  story,  isn't  it?"  Somehow  Sales 
found  himself  unable  to  look  at  Heloise,  a  side  glance 
having  showed  her  so  white  and  still.  "So  much  for 
the  romantic  West!" 

He  managed  to  smile  regretfully,  but  Miss  Selda 
could  not  return  the  smile.  She  had  a  broken  look  and 
sat  back  in  her  chair.  She  was  remembering  Q's  eyes. 

"There  must  be  some  mistake.  Sophie  must  ex 
plain.  Perhaps  there's  a  good  reason  for  his  silence. 
Is  the  girl  better?  Can  she  talk?  " 


242 "Q!> 

Sales  flushed  deeply  and  angrily.  Her  unexpected 
defense  irritated  him.  The  spark-like  eyes,  however, 
shifted  with  some  uneasiness.  "I  am  keeping  her 
under  a  narcotic  at  present.  For  a  few  minutes  this 
morning  she  was  quite  herself,  but  I  could  n't  allow 
her  to  talk.  It  would  have  been  dangerous.  Besides, 
she  offered  no  explanation;  seemed  rather  dull  and 
desperate.  Poor  child!  I'm  afraid,  Selda"  —  he 
dropped  his  voice —  "that  it  was  the  sort  of  terrible 
unspeakable  experience  that  can  never  be  described. 
He's  a  savage  brute." 

"Perhaps,"  murmured  Miss  Selda,  her  hand  across 
her  eyes,  "he  will  marry  her.  Has  she  any  family?" 

"Yes,  a  father,  the  head  waiter,  a  respectable  old 
fellow,  quite  heart-broken." 

"Has  he  tried  to  do  anything,  I  mean,  to  ar 
range —  " 

"Oh,  they  can't  do  anything  until  they've  heard 
Sophie's  story.  But  she  won't  marry  Q;  not  a  chance. 
She  shrinks  at  the  mere  mention  of  his  name." 

Silence  followed,  during  which  a  maid  delicately 
intruded  to  place  Miss  Selda's  mail  in  her  hands  and 
then  withdrew,  her  eyes  betraying  curiosity.  Hel- 
oise  took  advantage  of  this  interruption  to  escape. 
She  was  still  white,  but  bore  herself  daintily,  as 
though  she  were  a  creature  aloof  from  sordid  reali 
ties. 

Miss  Selda  glanced  absently  down  at  the  letters  in 
her  hand  and  became  at  once  electrified.  She  rapidly 
tore  open  a  dense  white  envelope.  When  she  looked 
up  from  this,  it  was  with  the  smile  of  Sir  Sydney 


The  Voice  of  Rumor 243 

Grinscoombe,  She  caressed  the  letter  with  long  fin 
gers;  the  stony  self-possession  had  returned  in  force. 

"You  were  quite  right,  William,"  she  said.  "I  ad 
mit  it.  It  was  foolish  to  imagine  that  the  young  man 
had  any  intrinsic  merit.  One  is  too  prone  to  fancy 
that  a  rough  stone  must  necessarily  be  a  rough  dia 
mond.  I  suppose  Heloise  has  had  quite  a  miraculous 
escape  from  some  unpleasant  day  of  reckoning.  My 
fault  entirely !  I  let  down  the  bars  for  a  reason  — 
which,  luckily,  has  now"  —  again  she  stroked  the 
letter  —  "ceased  to  exist."  She  smiled  slightly.  "He 
was  an  amusing  creature.  He  might  have  been  use 
ful.  Perhaps  he  was."  She  dismissed  him  with  a  ges 
ture  and,  rising,  walked  over  to  her  desk  and  put  her 
letter  very  carefully  away.  Then,  turning,  "We  can 
all  forget  about  him  now,  William.  He  was  always, 
for  some  reason  I  could  n't  quite  fathom,  a  thorn  in 
your  flesh.  I  wish  Fate  could  remove  some  other 
thorns  as  easily." 

"From  my  flesh?"  William  rather  uneasily  re 
plied,  his  hands  at  their  seeking  motions  instantly. 

"Yes."  Miss  Selda  hesitated,  standing  with  a  hand 
on  her  desk.  She  looked  cruel.  "I  was  going  to  send 
for  you  this  —  morning  in  any  case,  after  church, 
which  I  see  we  have  both  missed." 

"You  were  going  to  send  for  me?" 

"Yes,  about  an  absurd,  perhaps  an  alarming  inci 
dent.  This  paper  I  found  lying  on  my  floor  this  — 
morning.  It  had  been  weighted  with  a  stone  and 
tossed  in  through  my  window.  It  has  to  do  with 
you." 


244 "Q" 

She  took  a  crumpled  sheet  from  her  dress  and 
handed  it  to  him.  Sales  read  and  whitened. 

We  are  going  to  get  rid  of  William  Sales  [he  read].  If  you 
don't  chuck  him  from  the  hospital  staff  and  publish  your 
reasons  for  doing  so  before  next  Monday  at  four,  we  are 
going  to  take  the  law  in  our  own  hands.  It  will  go  hard  with 
Sales.  He  is,  in  the  eyes  of  God,  his  own  conscience,  and 
our  judgment,  a  murderer. 

This  was  signed,  "Widower." 

Sales  read  and  stared  at  the  bold  round  signature. 
His  indolent  memory  dimly  bestirred  itself.  He  fum 
bled  with  his  ghosts.  "A  widower?"  Clinton's  wife 
who  had  died  of  lock-jaw  in  the  ward  —  they  could 
hardly  get  him  for  that.  Nobody  could  know  —  least 
of  all  the  slovenly  head  nurse  he  had  retained  in  office 
—  that  he  had  n't  properly  sterilized  his  set  of  in 
struments,  taking  a  chance  because  it  was  late  and  he 
was  dining  out.  Perhaps  it  was  the  big  Blain  woman. 
No,  she  had  been  a  widow  and  her  case  would  n't 
have  creditably  borne  inspection  from  surviving  rela 
tives.  Stay!  There  had  been  a  midnight  call,  on  a 
stormy  night,  last  spring.  Some  woman  at  the  Gully 
• —  a  bad  heart!  He  remembered  now  the  voice  of  the 
summoner.  "It  would  n't  do  you  no  good  to  know 
my  name,  doc;  I  'm  a  stranger  in  these  parts.  But  the 
woman  is  took  awful  bad.  Say,  doc,  you  better 
come."  Why,  that  voice  had  been  Q's.  Sales  had 
never  linked  the  disassociated  incident  —  the  voice, 
drawling,  incredulous,  urgent,  through  the  wet  night 
—  now  startled  him  vividly.  Sales  wondered  why  in 
God's  name  he  had  n't  tumbled  out  of  his  bed  to  obey 


The  Voice  of  Rumor  245 

that  summons.  He  remembered  that  he  had  been 
half-dead  with  sleep  and  he  had  said  something  about 
a  rabbit-warren,  something  outrageous. 

"You're  badly  frightened,  aren't  you,  William?" 

Miss  Selda's  tone  had  a  poniard's  point. 

"Of  course  not!"  he  exploded  instantly.  "What 
nonsense!  The  fools %that  write  such  letters  are  the 
least  fearful  beings  in  the  world.  Cowards  and  liars ! " 
His  big  face  was  blotched;  he  began  to  move  about, 
ponderously  quivering.  "But  you  've  got  to  do  some 
thing,  Selda.  On  my  word,  you  have"  —  he  was  sud 
denly  a  leering  bully.  He  rolled  his  head  at  her. 
"You  don't  allow  such  a  letter  to  influence  you,  I 
hope."  This  was  a  threat. 

"You  have  brought  such  letters  upon  yourself, 
William,"  she  returned  with  a  quivering  courage. 
"How  can  I  protect  you  forever  from  yourself,  your 
indolence,  your  ignorance,  your  criminal  neglect?" 

He  swelled,  his  big  face  copper-colored.  "You  — 
you  —  you!  What  have  n't  you  to  fear?  What  can 
hurt  me  as  you  can  be  hurt  —  by  me?" 

At  this  she  walked  rapidly  and  stood  beneath  Sir 
Sydney's  portrait,  her  trembling  hands  clenched  on 
the  edge  of  the  mantel.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  she 
looked  to  that  old  contemptuous  symbol  of  Grins- 
coombery  for  help. 

"Oh,  don't,"  she  cried  out  pitifully,  "don't  dare  to 
speak  like  that.  I  —  I  —  of  course  I'll  do  all  I  can. 
You  know  it.  All  I  can.  What  else  have  I  done  with 
my  life  but  use  it  for  your  ladder,  your  shield!  It's 
been  long  —  my  life!  Please  get  back  to  your  own 


246 "Q" 

house  now,  William.  I  want  to  feel  again  that  this  is 
mine." 

He  laughed  all  shakenly  and  discordantly  and  fum 
bled  his  way  through  the  gold-colored  curtains  to  the 
front  door.  He  was  a  very  different  figure  from  the 
one  that  had  rolled  in  triumphantly  an  hour  before. 

Miss  Selda,  beneath  Sir  Sydney's  sneering  portrait, 
wept.  She  wept  proudly,  her  body  shaken  against 
stern  repression.  Gradually  the  stillness  soothed  her, 
the  sound  of  church  bells,  irregularly  regular,  shak 
ing  dim  music  across  warm  roofs,  hay-fields,  and 
drowsy  August  woods.  She  became  gradually  aware 
of  footsteps  in  the  house,  across  the  floor  above.  That 
must  be  Heloise.  The  poor  girl  was  unhappy;  the 
steps  had  a  driven  and  tormented  sound,  terribly 
shocked  by  the  disillusionment  concerning  Q.  Poor, 
wild,  beautiful,  distracted  thing!  Miss  Selda  drew 
herself  together  and  dried  her  eyes  and  cheeks.  The 
exquisite  suffering  of  youth  —  how  she  envied  it !  — 
the  adorable  sweet  pangs  of  hope  and  of  despair,  the 
throbbing  of  blood  like  a  savage,  monotonous  beating 
of  tom-toms,  an  inherited  rhythm  of  desire.  She  was 
wistful  over  her  child,  her  one  tenderness.  Well,  she 
must  let  the  girl  fight  for  a  brief  while  longer;  how 
splendidly  the  plot  was  working.  What  success!  If 
she  had  misshapen  her  own  life,  at  least  she  had  saved 
Lelo's  from  deformity.  And  Q  —  he  had  helped  just 
long  enough.  There  was  a  certain  irony  in  that.  Civ 
ilization  could  so  easily  bend  simplicity  to  its  pur 
poses  and  then  so  lightly  discard  the  instrument. 
Poor  Q!  Poor  boy! 


The  Voice  of  Rumor  247 

The  telephone  rang  in  the  hall,  a  maid's  feet 
tapped  and  went  upstairs  with  a  message.  Heloise's 
restless  pacing  stopped.  She  was  going  slowly  over  to 
her  own  telephone  upstairs.  Miss  Selda  waited.  She 
heard  low,  emphatic  answers,  a  little  reckless,  stac 
cato  laugh.  She  recognized  the  tone  as  that  appropri 
ate  to  Ferdinand  Fadden.  What  a  nuisance!  Miss 
Selda  suffered  from  a  plebeian  temptation  to  listen 
over  the  downstairs  telephone,  a  temptation  which 
the  trained  censor  of  her  consciousness  cut  dead  as 
though  he  had  not  even  recognized  it.  The  conversa 
tion  upstairs  was  lasting  an  interminable  while. 
There  was  evidently  some  sort  of  argument.  The 
final  sentence  rang  clear  through  an  accidentally 
opened  door.  "Of  course,  then,  I'll  come.  That  will 
prove  that  I'm  not  afraid  of  you.  Good-bye." 

Miss  Selda  started  away  from  her  attitude  of  tense 
listening,  seated  herself  at  her  desk,  examined  the 
contents  of  the  heavy  envelope  for  an  address,  and  be 
gan  to  write  brief,  urgent  sentences  with  the  not 
quite  steady  fingers  of  a  need. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MISS  SELDA  CALLS  FOR  HELP 

Q  HAD  never  heard  of  the  "slings  and  arrows  of  out 
rageous  fortune,"  but  he  solved  Hamlet's  propounded 
problem  —  instantly,  without  any  faltering  of  wits. 
He  took  arms  against  his  sea  of  troubles.  First,  he 
decided,  it  was  urgent  to  get  Laurie  Sales's  letter  to 
Sophie  at  the  earliest  moment  permitted  by  her  re 
covery,  which,  he  assured  himself,  allowing  for  the 
elder  Sales's  spite,  must  be  a  matter  of  a  few  hours' 
rest  and  care.  A  severe  fright  the  girl  had  no  doubt 
suffered,  and  coming  on  top  of  a  long  strain  and  a  vio 
lent  emotional  reaction,  it  was  enough  to  put  her  into 
hysterics.  But  Sophie  was  a  particularly  healthy 
woman  and  did  not  belong  to  the  class  whose  nerves 
had  been  indulged  by  fretful  introspective  idleness. 
She  would  come  quickly  back  to  normal.  But  she 
ought  to  get  her  letter.  It  would  be  an  efficacious 
remedy  for  the  depressing  cures  enforced  by  Sales, 
Ben  ton,  and  her  "Poppa."  Q,  in  his  factory-house 
refuge,  meditated  the  intervention  of  Mary  Grins- 
coombe,  but,  remembering  her  former  disapproval  of 
his  interference  in  the  affairs  of  Laurie,  he  decided 
against  it.  After  all,  he  might  just  as  well  deliver  the 
confidential  message  himself.  Benton  and  Company 
could  n't  be  forever  on  guard;  it  would  take  three  or 
four  of  them  to  throw  him  out.  They  "wouldn't 
likely  "  call  in  the  police.  Miss  Mariana  had  always 


Miss  Selda  Calls  for  Help 249 

been  his  friend.  Before  he  had  come  to  an  end  of  all 
the  excellent  reasons  for  putting  his  plan  into  prac 
tice,  he  found  himself  ascending  the  dingy  steps  of  the 
River  Hotel.  Five  minutes  before,  Q's  observation 
had  informed  him  that  Ben  ton  had  gone  out,  it  was 
the  hour  of  the  head  waiter's  necessary  absorption  in 
dining-room  duties,  Sales  had  gone  his  rounds,  and 
was  probably  now  taking  a  siesta  in  his  inner  office, 
Miss  Mariana  would  be  at  the  desk,  Bill  in  or  near 
the  elevator. 

Q  ran  up  the  steps  and  strolled  across  the  lobby. 
He  said,  "Good-mornin'  to  you"  pleasantly  to  Miss 
Benton,  and  stepped  into  the  elevator. 

Bill  wavered  in  the  doorway,  looking  over  his 
shoulder  for  instructions,  and  was  pulled  in.  Q 
slammed  the  door. 

"You  lift  me  up  to  Sophie's  floor,  feller,"  he  mur 
mured  gently,  "afore  I  start  shootinV 

And  the  elevator  slowly  rose.  Bill's  expression  was 
beatific,  though  wan.  Drama  had  come  at  last  into 
his  life. 

"Stop  where  you  are  until  I  come  back  —  savvy!" 

Q,  speaking  grimly  over  his  shoulder  as  he  stepped 
out,  received  a  multiplied  nod. 

"What's  her  room?" 

"Down  the  hall,  Number  25,"  Bill  breathed  out, 
his  nostrils  working  like  small  bellows. 

Q  ran  to  this  door  and  knocked.  "You  —  Sophie 
gel,"  he  said. 

She  cried  out  softly,  and  he  came  in,  closing  the 
door  behind  him.  She  was  propped  up  on  her  pil- 


250 "Q" 

lows,  all  her  dark  hair  spread  about  her  and  her  eyes 
alight.  He  stepped  over  to  her.  "You  ain't  scared  of 
me,  gel?"  and  his  voice  shook.  "You  know  I'd  'a* 
been  drug  by  an  outlaw  bronc  afore  I  'd  'a'  done  you 
any  hurt." 

She  nodded;  instantly  her  eyes  were  hungry  for  the 
letter  in  his  hand. 

"I'd  have  told  them,"  she  said,  "but  they  won't 
listen.  They  say  I  mustn't  talk.  And"  —  with  a 
deep  rose-hearted  blush  of  humiliation  —  "it  was  so 
awfully  hard  to  explain  —  about  Rupert.  I  Ve  been 
sick  over  you,  Q.  I've  been  furious  about  the  way  I 
acted.  I  was  scared  to  death  because  of  the  fire,  but  I 
did  n't  mind  what  you  did  —  "  She  laughed  uncer 
tainly.  "Somehow  I  can  understand  you,  and  you 
were  right.  It  was  exactly  what  I  needed.  I  came  to 
with  a  jump.  Oh,  Q,  think  where  and  what  I'd  have 
been  by  this  time!" 

"Quit  talkin',  dear.  Look,  I've  got  a  letter  for 
you." 

He  put  it  into  her  hands  and  turned  to  go.  But  at 
the  door  he  could  n't  resist  looking  back.  She  was 
reading  her  letter,  her  face  glowed,  she  had  already 
forgotten  him.  He  went  out,  smiling. 

Bill,  very  solemn  now,  took  him  down. 

"Say,"  Bill  hissed  between  the  second  and  third 
floors,  "I'm  for  you,  bo,  all  right.  I'm  wise  to 
Sophie  and  that  drummer-boy.  Give  me  a  new  job 
and  I'll  split  on  her  and  quit." 

Q's  eyes  widened  for  an  instant.  "You  hold  your 
tongue,  Bill,"  he  said,  grinning.  "Stick  by  the  buzz- 


Miss  Selda  Calls  for  Help  251 

box.  Likely  you  '11  get  a  raise  higher  than  the  sixth 
floor.  Tell  'em  I  stuck  a  six-shooter  under  your 
floatih'  rib.  They  '11  believe  it.  Good-bye  to  you." 

He  bowed  again  to  the  rosy  and  blinking  Mariana, 
who  had  spent  the  interval  in  staring  at  the  elevator 
door,  rejoicing  in  Q's  good  looks  and  dashing  behav 
ior,  and  wondering  whether  it  was  her  duty  to  call 
Sophie's  father  and  ring  for  the  police  —  and  so  ran 
out  and  down  the  steps.  So  much  for  the  Sophie  gelf 
A  vast  weight  had  fallen  from  his  heart.  It  left  it  free 
to  feel  the  keen  ache  of  Heloise's  desertion.  Before  he 
reached  his  room  under  the  flat,  red-hot  tin  roof  of  his 
refuge,  he  was  white  and  his  lips  were  drawn.  He  had 
walked  the  dusty  roads  all  afternoon  trying  to  out 
distance  pain.  How  could  he  quirt  himself  into  an  ac 
ceptance  of  defeat?  He  had  sworn  to  Sir  Sydney 
Grinscoombe  that  he  would  win  that  girl.  All  her 
beauty  swam  before  his  senses  as  he  sat  bowed  on  the 
edge  of  his  iron  cot.  The  room  was  darkening,  for  it 
was  late  evening,  and  against  the  dimness  Q's  weary 
eyes  painted  the  pictures  of  his  desire.  Presently  he 
closed  them  and  fell  back  across  the  bed,  throwing  up 
an  arm  over  his  face.  He  was  down,  but  he  was  fight 
ing,  only,  this  time,  it  was  himself. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Kinwydden,"  a  child's  nasal  voice 
whined  at  his  door.  "Oh,  say,  looka  here,  Mr.  Kin 
wydden,  now,  you're  wanted  at  the  telephone." 

He  came  to  his  feet,  startled,  and  felt  his  way  to  the 
door.  The  room  was  very  dark;  the  cloudy  August 
night  seemed  to  clog  all  his  senses. 

"Where  did  you  say,  Kitty?" 


Q 


"Downstairs  in  the  hall,  mister,  right  clost  near 
the  door.  The  gas-jet's  lighted  —  you  '11  see." 

"Sure.  I  savvy.  The  telephone." 

Q  descended  two  narrow  flights  of  uncarpeted  stair 
way  and  put  a  greasy  receiver  to  his  ear.  The  voice 
sent  a  shock  along  his  limbs.  It  was  a  quiet,  even 
voice,  choosing  its  syllables  precisely,  but  it  was  the 
voice  of  panic. 

"Is  this  you,  Mr.  Kinwydden?  This  is  Miss  Selda 
Grinscoombe  speaking.  I  found  out  from  the  Mills 
foreman  where  you  were.  Mr.  Kinwydden,  you  once 
made  me  a  promise." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Q.  His  voice  was  the  counter 
part  in  sound  of  chilled  iron.  Even  across  stretched 
wires,  the  voice  must  have  given  warning,  for  Miss 
Selda's  tones  hurried  unevenly. 

"Now  you  have  a  grievance  against  me,  perhaps  a 
just  one  —  ?! 

"No,  ma'am,  I  knowed  you  were  n't  responsible," 
he  said,  and  caused  a  short  silence. 

Then  the  hurrying  voice  began  again;  it  was 
frankly  pleading. 

"Q,  I  need  your  help,  desperately.  My  child,  my 
little  Heloise,  is  in  terrible  danger." 

He  waited;  the  gas-jet  showed  his  unrelenting 
mask. 

"She  has  gone  off  with  Fadden  —  oh,  I  hoped  it 
was  just  for  an  evening  spin,  but  it's  worse.  He  has 
dared  her  to  risk  herself.  They  —  they  were  bound 
for  an  inn  in  the  mountains,"  she  gasped  heavily,  aud 
ibly.  "It's  called  Folly  Inn.  It  is  not  a  respectable 


Miss  Selda  Calls  for  Help  253 

place,  Q.   It  is  absolutely  secluded,  remote,  inacces 
sible.   Out  there  he  will  have  her  in  his  power,  and  I 
happen  to  know  that  he  is  angry  with  her.    I  have 
telephoned  the  inn,  but  they  don't  answer.    Q,  are 
you  listening  to  me?"  she  wailed;  he  could  hear  her 
strike  the  telephone  table  with  her  clenched  hand. 
"  Yes,  ma'am.   I'm  hearing  everything  you  say." 
"It's  now  half-past  twelve,  and  they're  not  back." 
Q  did  not  move  an  eyelash.   Miss  Selda,  when  she 
next  spoke,  was  weeping. 

"Heloise  would  be  here,  if  she  could.  I  feel  her  ter 
ror.  I  feel  her  crying  for  help  —  for  your  help.  Q, 
whatever  grievance  you  may  have  against  me,  she  has 
no  part  in.  Heloise  believes  in  you." 

"I'll  be  at  the  inn  in  about  forty  minutes,"  said  Q. 
"I  know  where  it  lays.  I  can  get  a  car  here  pretty 
quick  by  means  of  a  friend  who  has  the  running  of  his 
own  machine.  I'll  leave  him  here  and  speed  the  ani 
mal  myself.  I  learned  how  to  stick  it,  more  or  less. 
Quiet,  lady,  quiet!  Good-night  to  you." 
He  hung  up. 

A  road,  once  traveled  by  Q,  was  mapped  indelibly 
in  his  memory.  He  was  very  trail- wise.  He  could 
have  followed  the  wandering  lanes  to  Folly  Inn  with 
a  blindfold  over  his  face.  This  was  nearly  what  he 
had  to  do  that  night,  for  it  was  a  night  of  solid  dark 
ness  through  which  the  Ford  seemed  to  be  jerking  a 
passage  for  itself.  The  owner  of  the  car  had  given  it 
to  him  with  reluctance;  damages  must  be  assured;  he 
expected  the  complete  destruction  of  his  means  of 
livelihood.  In  fact,  a  more  desperate  venture  than 


254 "Q" 

Q's  that  night  could  hardly  be  imagined.  He  knew 
far  less  about  the  car  than  the  average  modern  small 
boy.  He  did  erratic  things.  His  course  was  alter 
nately  a  crawl  and  a  bound,  and  it  was  almost  invari 
ably  serpentine.  At  regular  intervals  he  stalled  his 
engine.  He  struggled  up  hills  with  his  brake  on  and 
plunged  down  them  with  it  off.  At  last,  by  dint  of 
"giving  the  animal  its  head,"  and  going  at  a  shaken, 
undiminished,  breakneck  speed,  he  solved  most  of  his 
problems,  and  went  leaping  like  a  madman  through 
the  night. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

AT  FOLLY  INN 

WHEN  Heloise,  witch-like  and  swift,  had  left  Q  to  face 
his  punishment  at  the  hands  of  Sales  and  Miss  Grins- 
coombe,  she  had  meant  to  run  back  to  her  dangerous 
game  with  Ferdy  in  the  garden.  This  intention  had 
taken  her  rapidly  down  the  steps,  more  deliberately 
along  the  path  between  the  high  hedges,  and  had  fal 
tered  suddenly  at  sight  of  Ferdinand  himself.  She 
had  paused  just  where  he  was  visible  around  the  cor 
ner  of  her  shelter.  He  was  leaning  meditatively  for 
ward,  fishing  for  a  cherry  at  the  bottom  of  his  tall, 
narrow  glass,  and  his  teeth  showed  between  his  smil 
ing  lips.  It  was  this  smile  that  gave  her  heart  a 
wrathful  twist  and  sent  her  presently  tiptoeing  back 
between  the  hedges  to  the  house.  Let  him  sit  there 
and  smile  until  his  smile  had  time  to  fade  into  an  as 
tonished  blankness.  Why  was  he,  after  all,  so  sure  of 
her?  He  must  fancy  that,  because  she  trembled,  she 
loved  him !  No,  that  was  not  the  name  for  the  excite 
ment  he  proffered  her.  She  had  learned  to  recognize, 
at  least,  what  it  was  not.  In  her  room  upstairs  she 
watched  at  her  window,  saw  him  fidget  in  his  chair, 
look  up  at  the  house,  saw  him  move  about.  The  sun 
light  faded  from  the  gay  canvas  umbrella;  he  was  a 
white  and  solid  figure  in  the  dimness.  She  fancied 
she  heard  the  short  oath  with  which  he  presently 
jerked  his  big  angry  body  away  and  flung  it  into  his 


256 "Q" 

limousine.  He  did  not  look  up  at  the  house.  His 
broad  young  shoulders  were  sullenly  squared  under 
his  thin  coat.  Heloise  laughed  between  her  fingers 
like  a  naughty  child.  Lesson  the  first  for  Ferdinand! 
And  their  next  meeting  would  be,  after  this  set-back, 
thrilling  and  dangerous  enough.  She  would  be  cool, 
no  more  shaking;  she  was  done  with  her  shaking. 

When,  on  the  Sunday  morning,  the  maid  called  her 
to  the  telephone,  and  she  heard  his  voice,  she  reined 
in  her  nervous  excitement  with  both  the  hands  of  her 
will.  Only  a  few  minutes  before,  the  watch-dog  had 
been  utterly  disqualified  for  office.  Dr.  Sales's  story 
of  a  waitress  and  a  fire  had  stung  the  girl's  Grins- 
coombery  to  rage.  Sluypenkill,  perhaps  New  York, 
would  get  hold  of  the  story  and  drag  her  into  it  as  Q's 
alternate  distraction.  After  all,  why  should  she  need 
protection?  She  had  always  been  able  to  take  care  of 
herself.  Ferdy  had,  of  course,  once  narrowed  her 
world  to  the  grip  of  his  arms,  and  she  had  been  able 
hardly  to  draw  in  her  breath,  but  at  her  first  word  he 
had  released  her. 

"Are  you  shaking  this  —  morning?"  Ferdinand's 
voice  through  the  telephone  fell  suavely  on  her  ear. 
"I  think  I  can  hear  your  heart  beat  over  the  wires." 

"It's  your  own  heart,  Ferdinand.  I  never  felt  less 
like  shaking  in  my  life." 

"What's  given  you  back  your  nerve?" 

"I  never  lost  it." 

"Then  it  was  n't  because  your  protector  was  called 
off  that  you  never  came  back  Friday  afternoon?" 

"Of  course  not.   Don't  laugh.   I  insist  upon  your 


At  Folly  Inn  257 


believing  me,  Ferdy.  Why  should  I  be  afraid  of 
you?" 

"Why,  indeed?"  he  asked. 

"Did  you  call  me  up  to  tease  me  about  my  lack  of 
nerve  —  ?  Because  I  have  other  and  better  ways  of 
spending  a  Sunday  morning." 

"On  your  knees,  eh?  I'd  like  to  see  you  before  a 
prie-dieu  under  a  stained-glass  window  like  some  little 
medieval  saint.  You'd  be  pretty  and  convincing  — 
almost.  Heloise,  my  precious  hypocrite,  I  don't  be 
lieve  one  word  you  say.  You  did  n't  come  out  to  me 
again  because  you  were  scared  to  death.  Remember, 
I  saw  your  hands  shake,  and  you  told  me  you  'd  sent 
for  Q.  You're  a  short  sport,  Lelo." 

"Ami?  I'd  like  to  prove  it." 

"You  can  do  that  easily  enough."  There  was  a 
pause  here,  filled  with  the  quick  humming  of  their 
invisible  medium. 

"How?"  she  asked.  She  felt  as  she  had  often  felt 
on  the  hunting-field  before  the  getaway.  Her  heart 
had  begun  its  smothered  beating. 

"By  coming  out  and  having  supper  with  me  to 
morrow.  Will  you  do  that?  I'd  like"  —  here  he  was 
humble  and  rather  sweet  —  "to  prove  to  you  that  I 
am  a  gentleman,  Lelo." 

"Where  would  we  have  supper  —  you  mean  late 
supper?" 

"Oh,  no  —  say  eight  o'clock,  at  an  inn,  a  jolly  lit 
tle  old  quiet  place  I  know  of  back  in  the  mountains. 
We'll  have  supper  there  and  come  back  by  moon 
light." 


258 "Q" 

"There  won't  be  a  moon,  Ferdy." 

"Damn  the  moon !  Then  there  '11  be  stars  —  if  not, 
there  will  be  your  pretty  green  eyes,  Lelo.  I'll  be 
have  beautifully  and  so  will  you." 

"Of  course." 

"And  we'll  swear  friendship  on  the  inn  Bible  in  the 
front  parlor.  It's  like  that.  Well"  —  he  sighed  and 
managed  to  convey  a  sneer  —  "you  are  nervy,  are  n't 
you?" 

"Oh,  I'm  coming.  I  was  just  wondering  about 
Aunt  Selda.  She  would  n't  like  it  —  a  little  bit." 

"But  you  don't  always  consider  that  interesting 
detriment  to  a  good  time  so  carefully." 

"N-no." 

"Honestly  —  don't  you  trust  me,  Heloise?" 

"I  don't,"  said  Heloise  with  a  profound  and  genu 
ine  bitterness,  "trust  any  one,  least  of  all  myself, 
Ferdinand.  I  have  pinned  my  faith  on  the  honor  and 
sincerity  of  two  men  who  have  both  quite  conspic 
uously  failed  me,  and  —  forgive  me,  please  —  they 
were  quite  certainly  much  more  promising  specimens 
of  chivalry  than  you  are." 

"Just  shows  how  bad  a  hand  you  are  at  experimen 
tal  psychology.  Are  you  coming  to  supper?" 

"  Of  course  I  '11  come.  That  will  prove  that  I  'm  not 
afraid  of  you." 

"I'll  be  at  the  Manor  at  seven  o'clock  sharp." 
There  was  something  hard,  a  quality  of  decision  in  his 
voice  that  she  had  never  heard  in  it  before  and  that 
kept  her  attention  focused  after  he  had  hung  up,  as 
he  did  immediately.  Ferdy's  voice  was  usually  soft, 


At  Folly  Inn  259 


either  sweetly  or  sullenly.  That  last  speech  had  a 
business  man's  incisiveness,  the  tone  of  some  one  who 
has  put  through  a  successful  deal. 

Heloise  spent  the  interval  of  time  in  a  sort  of  vigil 
preparing  for  a  final  triumph  over  her  tiger  cub.  One 
must  never  show  fear  to  these  pet  wild  things.  She 
would  be  marble  inside  and  ice  outside,  and  withal 
the  pleasantest  possible  companion.  She  would  be 
both  lion-tamer  and  woman  of  the  world.  She  would 
be  Grinscoombery  incarnate.  How  that  foolish  word 
of  Mary's  adapted  itself  to  her  thoughts  and  filled 
what  must  have  been  a  need.  Who  was  a  Fadden  up 
start,  when  it  came  to  that,  to  disturb  the  tranquil 
lity  of  a  Grinscoombe?  She  was  great  lady  to  her 
finger-tips  when  she  came  down  the  steps  to  Ferdy's 
car  that  Monday  evening. 

"What  is  the  name  of  your  inn,  Ferdy,  where  you 
think  we  can  get  supper?"  she  asked,  just  before  she 
stepped  into  the  seat  beside  him.  He  had  not  yet 
looked  her  in  the  face,  but  now  he  did,  but  with 
opaque  eyes. 

"Folly  Inn,"  he  answered,  and  smiled. 

She  looked  toward  Aunt  Selda,  standing  at  a  win 
dow  like  a  tall,  austere  medieval  saint,  disapproval  in 
carnate,  and  she  was  faintly  startled  to  see  a  white, 
distorted  face  move  suddenly  from  her  sight.  At  the 
same  instant  Ferdy  started  his  car  and  Heloise,  look 
ing  back,  could  not  decide  whether  or  no  Aunt  Selda 
had  run  out,  unbelievably  swift,  upon  the  porch. 

They  talked  very  little  on  their  leafy,  dusky  way  to 
Folly  Inn.  Ferdy  seemed  absorbed  in  nursing  his  car 


260  "Q" 

along  the  rough  hill  roads.  He  was  paler  than  usual 
and  had  a  look  which  Heloise  described  to  herself  as 
44 swept  and  garnished."  Had  he  really,  perhaps, 
driven  out  his  pampered  devil?  Had  her  little  lesson 
of  neglect  really  tamed  him?  The  wicked  girl  was 
conscious  of  a  pang  of  disappointment.  She  felt  flat. 
Life  was  a  tiresome  and  disappointing  business  at  its 
best  or  worst  —  a  shabby  affair,  unworthy  of  her 
steel.  True  love  had  been  timid  and  uncertain,  chiv 
alry  had  stained  its  shield,  passion  was  a  diluted 
wine.  The  only  possible  solution  was  some  cold  com 
promise  with  life  such  as  Sir  Sydney  with  his  wedge- 
like  face  must  once  have  made  and  kept,  too,  cyni 
cally,  with  that  small,  set  smile. 

The  shabby  inn  received  them  into  its  shadows  and 
Heloise's  youthful  curiosity  responded  to  the  adven 
ture. 

"What  a  quaint  place!  Why  have  n't  I  ever  heard 
of  it?" 

The  little  smiling,  sidling  proprietor  took  her  wrap 
softly  away  and  softly  pocketed  a  fistful  of  something 
which  passed  from  Ferdinand's  hand  to  his.  He  went 
back  to  his  counter  and,  when  the  two  handsome 
guests  —  the  only  visitors  —  were  seated  in  their 
small  inner  room  at  the  daintily  set  round  table,  Der- 
rek  quietly  made  his  preparations  for  an  undisturbed 
night.  The  dark  young  waiter  had  his  instructions 
for  attendance,  the  cook  knew  what  she  was  to  serve, 
there  was  nothing  for  Derrek  to  do  save,  smiling  a  lit 
tle,  to  disconnect  his  telephone  and  to  point  out  to 
the  waiter  this  small  action,  with  a  lifted  eyebrow  and 


At  Folly  Inn  261 


a  murmured  word.  The  old  man  had  been  carted  up 
stairs  to  bed  at  sundown.  Now  Derrek  locked  up  and 
went  up  to  his  own  room.  He  slept  immediately 
above  the  small  company. 

Heloise  was  charmed  with  her  surroundings.  It 
was  all  quaint  and  smelt  sweetly  of  roses  and  old 
cleanliness  and  care.  The  floor  was  pleasantly  un 
even,  a  tiny  fire  snapped  in  the  grate,  for  this  room 
had  been  damp,  and  up  in  the  hills  after  sunset,  the 
night  had  a  faint,  insinuating  chill  in  its  suddenly 
cooled  sultriness. 

Ferdy  was  a  persuasive  host.  They  drank  to  their 
adventure  in  the  cocktails  he  mixed.  Heloise  talked 
amiably  over  their  soup  and  their  cutlets,  their  hot 
biscuit  and  sweet  corn,  their  ice-cream  and  apple 
pie.  They  lingered  interminably  over  coffee  and 
cheese  and  crackers.  Ferdinand  wras  an  excellent  lis 
tener  that  evening,  only  he  seemed  to  be  listening  to 
the  inn  and  to  the  night  as  closely  as  to  her. 

"I  admit  your  nerve,"  he  said,  as  she  left  the  table 
to  sip  from  her  small  cup  before  the  fire  and  the  high, 
narrow  mantel  shelf.  "Haven't  you  ever  really 
heard  of  Folly  Inn?" 

He  wandered  round  the  table,  now  cleared,  stop 
ping  for  a  second  at  the  door  before  he  joined  her  and 
stood  beside  her  across  the  uneven  brick  hearth.  The 
room  was  almost  too  warm  with  its  closed  shutters 
and  its  fire.  The  mirror  told  Heloise  that  she  was 
brilliantly  flushed;  red  and  white  and  gold.  She  had 
taken  off  her  hat  and  wore  the  sheer  black  dress  she 
had  chosen  for  its  graceful  dignity.  It  made  her  skin 
a  substance  of  electric  fairness. 


262 "Q" 

Ferdinand  looked  at  her  delicate  bare  forearm  rest 
ing  along  the  mantel. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  never  heard  it  mentioned." 

"It  was  once  quite  a  famous  little  place.  Some  of 
the  rarest,  choicest  Hudson  River  scandals  have  been 
hatched  here." 

"Scandals!"  Her  coffee-cup  rattled  as  she  set  it 
down.  "Why,  you  said  it  was  the  sort  of  place  where 
there  'd  be  a  Bible." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  there  is  one,  over  on  that 
table.  Do  you  want  to  hold  it  in  your  hands,  Lelo?" 

"Oh,  no  —  I  don't  feel  the  need  of  Bible  support. 
You  've  never  cooed  so  mildly,  Ferdy."  She  affected  a 
delicate  yawn.  "You've  been  almost  —  boring  — 
for  once  in  your  life." 

"My  wife  tells  me  that  for  a  large  strong  man,  I  'm 
fairly  ineffectual."  He  was  still  looking  down  at  the 
arm  and  Lelo  was  aware  of  the  unchanged  direction  of 
his  look  and  the  slowly  changing  expression  of  his 
face,  from  which  a  curtain  like  the  curtain  of  a  stage 
was  lifting  gradually. 

"She  does  say  rather  nasty  things  to  you,  does  n't 
she?  Poor  Ferdy!" 

"Yes.  After  you  didn't  come  back  to  the  garden,  I 

went  home  in  a  bad  humor.  It  was  d d  rude  of 

you,  Lelo,  to  leave  me  there,  and  I  had  an  unholy  row 
with  Lucy.  She  told  me  she  was  at  least  more  success 
ful  in  her  affairs  than  I  seemed  to  be  in  mine.  She 
told  me  that  you  were  making  me  look  like  a  great  fool 
—  and  act  like  one." 

"Does  she  consider  me  one  of  your  —  affairs,  Fer- 


At  Folly  Inn  263 


dinand?"  Lelo  examined  her  fingers  to  be  certain 
that  they  were  entirely  steady  and  not  cold. 

" Don't  you?" 

"No." 

"Just  —  no  —  like  that?" 

"Just  —  no  —  like  that!" 

"  I  saw  you  on  Saturday  round  the  corner  of  that 
hedge.  You  came  back  and  looked  me  over  and  went 
away  and  left  me  to  sit  there  and  cool  my  heels, 
did  n't  you?  You  thought  me  the  kind  of  puppy-dog 
that  puts  up  with  that  sort  of  kicking  —  did  n't 
you?" 

Heloise  had  a  swift,  revealing  memory.  "Seems 
like  she  entertains  the  notion  that  a  man  is  a  safe  lit 
tle  pet  animal  like  some  kind  of  a  lapdog.  I  'm  not  a 
quarter  so  safe.  Some  day  that  lady  is  agoin'  to  get 
the  lesson  of  her  life  if  she  don't  quit  temptin'  me  — " 
It  was  n't  possible,  perhaps,  that  she,  Heloise  Grins- 
coombe,  had,  in  Q's  terribly  candid  phrase,  been 
"tempting"  Ferdy  for  the  beguilement  of  her  bitter, 
disappointed  tedium?  Was  it  a  dangerous  game? 
Could  it  be  that  a  man  was  really  not,  when  it  came 
to  the  final  development,  a  safe  plaything?  Was  this 
sipping  at  passion  the  proper  medicine  for  the  restless 
craving  of  an  unsatisfied  desire?  Ferdy 's  physical 
strength,  the  hot  intemperance  of  his  blood,  his  ob 
vious  desire  for  her,  had  been  a  stimulant,  a  distrac 
tion.  Perhaps  —  she  came  to  the  decision  suddenly 
and  completely  —  she  had  better  go  home. 

"It's  been  charming,  Ferdy,"  she  smiled  and 
moved  around  the  table  languidly. 


264 "Q" 

"You're  not  going  home  yet?"  he  asked  politely, 
standing,  however,  still  where  he  was. 

"  W-well,  it  must  be  very  late.  We  ate  like  epicures 
and  I  've  talked  my  head  off.  Aunt  Selda  will  be  get 
ting  very  nervous  about  me." 

He  laughed  shortly  and  inexplicably  as  she  reached 
the  door. 

"I  can't  open  it,"  she  said. 

"Queer!" 

"'See  if  you  can,  Ferdy." 

He  tried  obligingly  and  failed. 

"There's  something  the  matter  with  the  catch." 

"Urn-hum." 

"Call  the  waiter." 

"Oh,  he  goes  back  to  his  own  wife  and  family  after 
hours." 

"The  proprietor,  then." 

"He's  in  bed.  I  heard  him  turn  in  about  an  hour 
ago.  He's  snoring  sound  asleep  by  now.'" 

"Well,  then,  break  open  the  door." 

"Not  on  your  life,"  said  Ferdy  roughly,  and  then 
she  turned  and  looked  him  over  carefully. 

"You  are  going,"  he  said  heavily,  "to  be  punished 
so  you'll  never  forget  it." 

Heloise  crimsoned. 

"Punished?   For  what,  please?" 

"For  making  a  fool  of  me,  my  dear." 

"If  you  are  a  fool,  Ferdinand,  it  was  never  of  my 
making." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  me?"  he  asked. 

He  seemed  to  be  swelling  before  her  eyes.    He 


At  Folly  Inn  265 


looked  very  handsome,  rather  pale,  his  eyes  thunder 
ous  and  bright. 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  am  amused." 

"Good!  Then  come  back  and  sit  down  before  the 
fire.  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"Certainly." 

She  did  sit  down  and  stretched  out  her  slenderly 
slippered  feet  to  the  small  glow.  She  rested  her  calm 
hands  on  the  painted  wooden  arms  of  her  chair  and 
looked,  not  at  Ferdinand,  but  down  at  the  fire.  You 
must  never  show  these  fierce  pets  that  you  are  afraid 
of  them.  If  Aunt  Selda  had  known  her  whereabouts, 
she  would  have  been  telephoning  by  now.  Ferdinand 
sat  down,  too,  and  folded  his  hands  together. 

"  You  see,  Heloise,  I  knew  you  did  n't  really  love 
me  a  lot.  You  did  find  me  rather  —  well  —  exciting, 
did  n't  you?" 

"Sometimes.  I  always  thought  you  were  a  good 
sort,  that  is,  I  always  knew  you  were,  Ferdy."  In 
spite  of  herself  a  little  note  of  pleading  had  crept  into 
her  cool,  young,  steady  voice. 

"Oh,  I  am  a  good  sort,  all  right.  And  a  good  sport. 
What  did  you  think  I  was  after?" 

"You  were  after?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  waste  my  time,  generally  speaking." 

"I  thought  that  was  the  main  business  of  your  life, 
Ferdy.  Honestly  I  did." 

"Well,  you're  wrong.  I'm  a  hunter." 

"A  hunter?" 

"  Um-hum — like  your  Westerner — after  big  game. 
I've  a  d d  rotten  married  life,  and  I  can't  escape, 


266 "Q" 

because  Lucy  does  n't  give  me  a  loophole,  and  she 
won't  get  rid  of  me  as  long  as  father's  money  holds 
out  —  you  bet.  Lucy  is  one  grand  little  spender." 

How  insufferably  vulgar  he  was!  Lelo  flagellated 
her  own  tolerance  of  such  a  man.  And  she  had  so 
much  more  rigorously  kept  Q  in  his  place.  Ah,  Q! 
Where  are  you?  How  could  I  ever  have  believed  any 
thing  against  you?  If  you  tied  up  Sophie,  it  was  for 
some  ridiculous  chivalrous  intention  that  Sluypenkill 
could  never,  of  course,  interpret  wisely.  She  would 
write  to  Q.  She  would  bring  him  to  the  Manor. 
Those  guarded  eyes  of  his  that  sometimes  opened  to 
show  a  deep,  wild,  gentle  heart  —  she  was  thirsty  for 
their  coolness ! 

"Excuse  me,  Ferdinand,  I  was  n't  listening.  What 
did  you  say  then?" 

"I  said  that  you  're  a  d d  intelligent  woman  and 

that  you  know  me  from  A  to  Z,  inside  and  out.  You 
knew  I  was  n't  a  romantic  cowboy  or  a  gentlemanly 
suitor.  You  knew  I  was  —  hungry  for  every  inch  of 
your  beautiful  body,  that  I  wanted  to  kiss  your  lips  so 
that  I  could  forget  they  were  n't  part  of  my  own  lips, 
that  I  wanted  to  feel  you  under  my  hands  —  " 

"Hush!  Hush!"  She  had  stood  up,  freeing  herself 
from  him,  for  he  was  on  his  knees  and  had  wrapped 
his  arms  about  her  slenderness. 

"No,  you  can't  run  away.  It's  too  late.  You've 
got  to  give  me  something,  Lelo,  to-night,  or  I  '11  never 
let  you  go.  Give  me  something,  dear!  Dear!  Dear! 
Why  are  n't  you  generous?  Anything  so  beautiful 
ought  to  be  free  as  God's  flowers!  It  never  harms  a 


At  Folly  Inn  267 


woman  to  give  —  it  helps  her  beauty,  it  eases  her 
heart.  Don't  make  a  beast  of  me  by  struggling. 
Come  to  me  graciously !  You  will  be  none  the  worse 
for  it  —  " 

The  words  and  sentences  were  revealing,  terrible 
to  her  innocence,  which,  even  with  all  her  folly  on  her 
head,  all  her  half -knowledge,  all  her  rashness,  all  her 
near-experience,  was,  after  all,  so  astonishing  a  thing 
in  contrast  to  Ferdinand's  misunderstanding  of  it. 
The  little,  breathless,  wind-flower,  wide-eyed  girl  that 
lives,  ignored  and  secret,  in  the  breasts  of  so  many 
of  these  steel-armored,  flippant  young  Bacchantes  of 
ball-room  and  motor-ride,  now  stood  frozen  with  dis 
may  and  heard  the  worst  of  love  before  she  had  ever 
heard  its  best  —  if  there  be  in  the  confused  torrent  of 
sex  and  spirit  any  best  or  worst,  save  in  our  warped 
interpretations  of  them.  Certainly,  for  Heloise,  there 
was  a  worst.  With  her  training,  with  her  background, 
this  experience  was  already  a  brand  across  her  mind. 
What  it  might  be  before  she  escaped  can  hardly  bear 
thinking  of.  And  yet,  how  could  Ferdinand  have 
looked  through  the  affectation  of  a  Cleopatra  to  the 
little  wide-eyed,  wind-flower  girl?  Only  such  unbe- 
wildered  eyes  as  Q's,  used  to  long  distances,  could 
recognize  her.  Shy  and  sweet  and  wavering,  she  had 
run  out  sometimes  to  look  up  at  him. 

Ferdinand,  at  her  growing  terror  and  rigidity,  be 
gan  to  be  angry.  He  stood  up,  let  her  go,  went  roving 
about  the  room,  pleading  and  threatening,  coming 
closer  to  gather  her  persuasively  against  his  heart,  re 
leasing  her,  at  last  dropping  his  mouth  upon  her  neck. 


268 "Q" 

"I'm  going  to  drink  you  down  like  wine,"  he  said. 

And  she  screamed  piercingly,  just  as  though  talons 
had  been  buried  in  her  flesh. 

Upstairs  Derrek  thrust  his  head  under  the  covers 
and  cursed.  "Now,  that  ain't  what  I  took  the  money 
for,"  he  said.  "  Confound  young  Fadden !  I  thought 
she  looked  like  a  proud  one.  He's  a  nasty  big  ani 
mal."  But  Derrek  kept  his  covers  wrapped  close 
about  his  ears,  because  the  inn  had  very  little  custom 
nowadays  and  Fadden 's  fist  had  held  a  bundle. 

With  the  scream,  Grinscoombery's  pride  fell,  and 
Heloise  raved  and  wept  and  fought.  She  did  n't  hear 
the  crashing  of  a  shutter,  but  she  did  know  at  last 
that  cold  air  blew  upon  her  and  that  the  tiger  had 
been  plucked  away.  She  heard  Q  say,  "Yell  for 
your  Popper  now,  Fer-dee-nand,  like  you  did  in  the 
cow-camp,"  and  she  saw  a  battle  of  young  gods. 

It  was  a  terrible,  beautiful  spectacle,  from  which 
she  drew  away  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room,  but 
which  she  watched  like  one  of  those  white,  gold- 
haired  women  of  German  forests,  torn  and  disheveled, 
her  eyes  phosphorescent,  splendid,  with  fury  and  de 
light.  When  Ferdinand  lay,  dead  dragon  under  St. 
George's  foot,  she  crept  forward  and  fell  against  Q. 

"Please  take  me  home,"  wailed  the  little  girl  who 
would  never  again  be  a  white  wind-flower,  for  all  Q's 
timely  rescue.  She  was  burnt  with  kisses  and  with 
gripping  hands. 

All  through  the  dark,  shaking,  plunging  journey, 
neither  Heloise  nor  Q  spoke  by  a  single  breath.  She 
lay  against  him,  silent,  broken,  sobbing  at  irregular 


At  Folly  Inn  269 


intervals  in  big  heart-broken  sobs.  He  lifted  her  down 
at  the  Manor  door  and  she  crept  across  its  threshold, 
and  he,  hearing  low  voices  in  the  other  room,  drew 
her  quickly  through  the  gold  curtains  and  switched 
on  a  light.  The  little  room  looked  astonishingly  prim 
and  gilt  and  undisturbed.  Sir  Sydney  smiled.  For  a 
minute  Heloise  drooped  below  him,  then  she  came 
two  slow  steps  over  to  Q  where  he  stood,  somber,  pit 
iful,  and  white,  his  bruised  face  quivering.  She  put 
her  arms  about  his  neck  and  tilted  back  her  face, 
which  offered  the  reward  of  victory. 

"If  you  think  I  am  fit  —  please  kiss  me,  Q." 

He  shook.  With  a  scared,  pale  look  he  put  an  arm 
carefully  about  her  and  bent  his  lips.  But  she  trem 
bled  to  his  kiss  and  clung,  and  slowly  fired  his  blood. 
She  was,  for  the  moment,  his. 

"What  does  it  mean,  Heloise  —  your  giving  me 
your  lips?  " 

"It  means  anything  you  like,  Q.  You  may  have  — 
everything,  anything  I  can  give  you." 

He  kissed  her  again  so  gently  that  he  did  not  hurt 
her  mouth,  and  he  moved  quietly  away. 

"I'll  have  to  tell  you  good-night,"  he  murmured; 
then  in  front  of  the  gold  curtain  he  shot  up  to  his 
splendid  height,  his  deep  eyes  lighted.  He  moved 
them  from  Heloise  to  Sir  Sydney  Grinscoombe,  and 
he  smiled.  It  was  not  his  old  smile,  but  it  gleamed. 

Heloise  looked  upon  a  disillusioned  conqueror. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

JUSTICE 

AT  Q's  command,  "Quiet,  lady,  quiet!"  Miss  Selda 
had  faltered  away  from  her  telephone  and,  moving 
back  to  her  chair,  had  dropped  into  it  and  relaxed  all 
her  trembling  muscles.  Since  she  had  overheard,  by  a 
mere  chance,  Ferdy's  and  Lelo's  destination,  she  had 
suffered  indescribable  torments  of  memory  and  of 
alarm.  There  was  a  long  battle  with  her  pride  which 
set  her  calmly  at  the  lonely  dinner-table  and  took  her 
as  calmly  to  an  apparent  reading  of  the  newspapers, 
which  kept  her  chained  to  the  rigidity  of  her  usual 
composure  until  midnight.  Then,  quite  suddenly, 
Miss  Selda's  self-control  snapped.  Thirty-nine  years 
ago  at  Folly  Inn!  To-night  at  Folly  Inn!  Her  Hel- 
oise!  She  went  to  her  telephone  and  began  a  patient 
searching  through  the  night  for  Q.  By  the  time  his 
voice  came,  hers  was  almost  beyond  her  control.  Not 
until  she  had  his  reassurance  did  she  understand  what 
the  hours  of  suspense  had  done  to  her.  She  felt  bone- 
broken  and  nerve-stretched.  She  sat  and  let  old  age 
coil  round  her  like  a  snake.  Let  Lelo  be  brought  back 
safe  and  she  would  be  old  comfortably! 

There  was  no  ringing  at  the  front  door,  which  stood 
open,  but  some  one  blundered  heavily  through  it  in  a 
blind,  bat-like  haste  and  pushed  open  the  drawing- 
room  door  upon  her  privacy.  She  turned  her  head 
and  saw  William  Sales  —  white,  puffy,  disordered, 
breathing  fast. 


Justice  271 


"Selda!"  he  whispered,  coming  over  to  her  and 
wiping  sweat  from  his  face  repeatedly,  first  with  one 
hand,  then  with  the  other,  "I  hold  you  responsible  for 
this!" 

She  had  pulled  herself  up  straight  in  her  deep  chair 
and  was  clutching  its  arms. 

"You  hold  me  responsible  —  for  what?" 

44  They  're  after  me.  You  've  got  to  keep  them  out." 

Her  relief  was  so  great  —  she  thought  he  had  come 
with  some  terrible  tidings  of  her  niece  —  that  she 
laughed.  "Who  are  after  you?" 

"Those  dogs  from  the  Mills,  sicked  on  me  by  that 
Western  devil  of  yours.  Why  did  n't  you  do  some 
thing?  You  could  have  fired  the  lot.  I  tell  you, 
they  're  after  me.  I  got  a  warning  from  a  kid  I  Ve 
given  pennies  to;  came  on  a  run.  They're  coming, 
they  're  on  their  way  " — he  quivered  all  over —  "  with 
a  horsewhip ! " 

"Coming  here?" 

"No,  to  my  house.  But  they'll  track  me.  He  will. 
He'll  drag  me  out  —  the  bloodhound.  He's  been  at 
my  heels  since  the  first  night.  He'll  get  me." 

"No,  William,  he's  not  with  them.  I  know  where 
he  is  to-night.  Be  quiet,  please.  Sit  down.  You've 
been  badly  frightened.  But  I'm  sure  it  was  a  false 
alarm.  They  won't  come  here  for  you"  —  her  teeth 
slid  against  each  other,  then  set  —  "and  if  they  do 
come,  I  can  manage  them.  They  won't  dare  search 
my  house  for  you,  I  should  hope.  Sit  down  and  keep 
quiet,  I  say.  I  don't  feel  in  the  humor  for  a  scene.  I  '11 
get  you  some  whiskey." 


272 "Q" 

After  he  had  drunk  the  whiskey,  he  collapsed  and, 
lying  along  the  lounge,  he  panted  like  a  dusty  dog. 
She  moved  about,  ghostly  and  restless,  listening  to 
the  vague  and  distant  noises  of  the  night.  They  heard 
the  unbroken  river-murmur,  the  occasional  crescendo 
and  diminuendo  of  a  passing  train,  at  last  the  noisy 
humming  of  a  rapidly  driven  car. 

"What's  that?"  he  cried,  coming  up  to  a  sitting 
position  and  cowering  against  the  cushions,  clutching 
at  them  with  his  hands.  "It's  coming  in  here,  I  tell 
you!" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Keep  still.  It's  Heloise.  She 
has  been  out  to  a  party."  Then  as  there  came  a  faint 
murmur  of  Lelo's  voice,  Miss  Selda's  face  grew  calm 
and  its  lines  smoothed  themselves  out.  She  came  over 
to  Sales,  looked  down  at  him  and  smiled  at  once 
scornfully  and  indifferently.  "Why  don't  you  go  up 
stairs  and  get  to  bed?  You  are  quite  safe." 

"Perhaps."  He  blew  his  lips  in  and  out.  "Well, 
perhaps  I  am.  Could  it  have  been  a  false  alarm?  The 
little  rascal  seemed  scared  himself.  All  his  freckles 
stood  out,  he  was  so  pale.  Well  —  yes  —  yes,"  he 
murmured  reassurance  to  himself  as  though  his  spirit 
were  a  scared  child,  "I  might  as  well  go  up  and  get 
some  sleep.  But "  —  on  his  way  to  the  door  he  turned 
and  shook  a  finger  at  her  —  "I  hold  you  responsi 
ble  for  my  bodily  safety,  Selda." 

She  bent  her  head,  smiling  the  Sir  Sydney  smile. 
"I  accept  the  responsibility,  William  —  it  has  been 
the  absurd  and  undignified  punishment  for  my  — 
mistake.  Go  upstairs.  Physically  you  are  safe 
enough." 


Justice  273 


Sales  blundered  out  into  the  hall  and  found  him 
self  face  to  face  with  Q.  The  young  man  bowed  and 
smiled. 

"I'll  run  you  home,  doc,"  he  said  pleasantly. 

Miss  Selda  had  shrunk  back  from  that  meeting, 
had  closed  the  door  upon  it.  She  could  not  face  Q, 
whom,  in  Sales's  presence,  she  had  insulted  and  dis 
missed,  and  who  had  responded  to  her  call  for  help. 

"I'm  spending  the  night  here,"  Sales  gasped  out. 

"No,  sir.  You  aren't.  You're  coming  back  with 
me.  No  use  pulling  back  on  the  rope,  doc.  I  was  on 
my  way  to  you.  The  boys  will  get  you  if  you  don't 
put  your  confidence  in  me.  I  was  going  to  get  round 
to  you  earlier  this  evening,  but  I've  been  delayed. 
It's  about  two  o'clock,  is  n't  it?  We  have  three  quar 
ters  of  an  hour,  then,  if  we're  quick."  He  stepped 
close  to  Sales.  "Get  out,  you  big  bully,"  he  said  ter 
ribly,  "and  step  into  the  Ford,  or,  by  God,  I'll  thrash 
you  into  a  bigger  jelly  than  God  and  your  own  lazi 
ness  has  made." 

Sales  lifted  up  his  voice  to  bleat  for  his  patroness, 
but  his  throat  shut  under  Q's  grasp.  He  was  backed 
slowly  along  the  hall,  across  the  veranda,  and  heaved 
up,  still  by  the  neck,  into  the  waiting  Ford.  Q 
climbed  to  the  wheel  and  they  were  off  instantly  at  a 
terrifying  speed. 

"I  can't  keep  the  critter  going  unless  I  give  him 
rein,"  Q  explained  equably.  "Don't  you  shake  your 
self  to  pieces  now,  doc.  Let  the  critter  do  the  shaking 
for  you.  I  Ve  took  your  case  into  my  hands  and  I  'm 
going  to  look  after  it  good  and  plenty.  You  do  like  I 


274 "Q" 

tell  you  to,  and  you  won't  get  your  lickin'  from  the 
boys  —  much  as  you  deserve  it. 

"Now,  since  we  haven't  got  a  whole  lot  of  time, 
you  get  up  on  the  witness  stand  while  I  keep  my  hand 
on  the  wheel,  and  you  answer  me  a  few  questions. 
Along  about  forty  year  ago,  you  was  spending  a 
night  at  Folly  Inn,  was  n't  you?  —  Now,  look  ahere, 
you  either  speak  out  to  me  or  you  get  your  lickin' 
from  the  boys.  Take  your  choice." 

"Yes,"  muttered  Sales. 

"And  that  night,  there  come  to  the  inn  a  young 
lady  and  a  man.  You  knowed  who  the  young  lady 
was,  and  you  begun  to  think  it  mighty  queer  for  her 
to  be  there  in  the  company  of  a  married  man,  did  n't 
you?  Speak  out  so's  I  can  hear  above  the  critter's 
breathing.  He's  broken- winded." 

"Yes." 

"And  along  toward  mornin'  that  lady,  who  was 
already  scared  and  regretful  of  running  away  from 
home  and  mother,  came  and  slipped  a  letter  under 
your  door,  tellin'  you  she  had  run  away  and  was 
scared  and  wanted  to  go  back.  Would  you  be  kind 
enough  to  take  her?  Is  that  so?" 

Sales  nodded,  or  the  Ford  bobbed  his  head  for  him. 

"Likely  she  put  a  whole  lot  more  into  that  letter. 
She  was  scared  silly  and  you  was  her  last  hope.  Say, 
doc,  she  trusted  you.  And  so  you  took  her  home,  got 
her  away  quiet  from  the  man,  and  helped  her  lie  to 
her  pa.  And  you  kept  the  letter  and  you  kept  her  se 
cret  for  her." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  did,"  Sales  spoke  almost  roundly. 


Justice  275 


"But,  doc,  what  use  did  you  make  of  that  lucky 
letter,  eh?  Say,  you  did  n't  use  your  secret  ag'in'  the 
lady,  did  you?  You  did  n't  threaten  that  poor  lady 
with  tellin'  her  father  or  lettin'  Sluypenkill  prick  up 
its  ears  or  nothin'  of  that  nature,  did  you?" 

"No,  I  did  not,"  said  Sales,  almost  as  roundly. 

"You  liar!"  murmured  Q.  "I  reckon  the 

boys  will  have  to  have  you,  after  all.  You're  too 
dirty  a  pack  for  me  to  handle." 

"Do  you  blame  a  man  for  furthering  his  career,  for 
letting  a  woman  whom  he  had  helped  and  saved  and 
shielded  from  disgrace,  further  it  for  him?" 

Q  made  no  answer.  They  were  nearing  Sales's  door 
and  presently  the  doctor  found  himself,  a  steel  hand 
on  his  arm,  led  back  into  his  own  house,  through  a  sit 
ting-room  to  his  office  at  the  rear.  There  Q  switched 
on  a  light  and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Not  much  time  —  but  enough,"  he  said.  "The 
boys  are  on  their  way.  Now,  Sales"  —  he  pointed 
the  big,  wan,  shaken  body  to  the  patient's  chair  and 
seated  himself  in  the  doctor's  usual  place  behind  his 
desk  —  "this  is  where  you  get  a  diagnosis  of  your 
case. 

"You're  a  liar  and  a  coward  and  a  dirty  bully. 
You're  a  blackmailer;  you're  dern  near  to  bein'  a 
murderer.  All  your  smoothness  and  your  smilin'  and 
your  slidin'  ain't  agoin'  to  help  you  any  now.  Your 
career  is  reachin'  chapter  last.  Fork  out  that  pre 
cious  document  of  yourn  —  I  mean,  Miss  Grins- 
coombe's  letter.  It 's  in  your  waistcoat  pocket  in  a 
leather  case;  I've  seen  you  fingerin'  it  when  she  was 
gettin'  restive.  Hurry  up,  man." 


276  "Q" 

In  the  silence  came  a  distant  shuffling  of  feet. 
The  doctor  pulled  out  the  leather  case  numbly,  and 
numbly  handed  a  closely  written  thin  sheet  to  Q.  He 
glanced  at  it  and  put  it  into  his  pocket.  Then  he  rose. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "I'm  agoin'  to  run  you  out  of 
town.  Here.  Put  out  that  light.  By  God,  they  're  on 
their  way." 

He  gripped  his  prisoner,  locked  the  office  door,  and 
with  all  haste  and  silence  the  two  men,  Sales  shuffling 
frantically  ahead,  got  themselves  along  a  passage, 
through  a  close,  clean  kitchen,  and  out  into  a  garden. 

"Quit  your  shakin',  man,"  Q  muttered  as  they 
plunged  down  a  hill,  through  a  brook  and  into  a  lane. 
"I  left  a  note  for  them  on  your  desk,  tellin'  them  I 
had  took  care  of  your  case.  I  had  to  have  them  on 
their  way,  to  squeeze  the  truth  out  of  you.  Pressure. 
Ah!  Here's  my  hoss!"  They  were  almost  upon  the 
pony  tied  to  a  tree  near  the  roadside,  before  Sales  saw 
it.  He  started  back  violently. 

Q,  whistling  softly  through  his  teeth,  untied  a  rope 
from  the  Western  saddle.  "I  bought  me  a  couple  of 
these  here  ponies  soon  after  I  come,"  he  said;  "I 
knowed  they'd  come  in  useful.  You  told  me  once, 
doc,  you'd  run  a  couple  of  youngsters  out  of  Sluypen- 
kill." 

Sales,  listening  to  sounds  and  seeing  lights  up  there 
in  his  house,  breathed  fast  and  audibly. 

"Well,  sir,  I  am  agoin'  to  run  you  out.  Onct  — 
four  months  ago  —  I  called  you  up  to  come  see  a 
woman  took  sick  with  heart  trouble."  Here  a  rope 
settled  about  Sales's  body,  his  hands  were  pulled 


Justice  277 


back  of  him  and  deftly  fastened  together  at  the 
wrists.  Q  swung  himself  into  the  saddle.  "You  told 
me  it  was  too  bad  a  night;  you  told  me  it  was  better 
for  them  rabbits  to  die  off.  Well,  sir,  the  woman  died 
all  right.  It  ain't  such  a  bad  night  now.  There's  no 
rain.  The  dust  is  pretty  thick  when  a  pony  kicks  it 
up.  But,  because  you  did  n't  drive  along  this  road 
that  night,  you  're  agoin'  to  run  yourself  along  it  now. 
Doc,  you're  agoin'  to  run  every  step  of  the  way  to 
the  Gully.  I've  got  a  short  rope  on  you  and  I  kin 
keep  you  from  droppin'  in  your  tracks.  You  've  made 
Miss  Grinscoombe  eat  dust;  now  tell  me  how  you 
like  the  taste  of  it  yourself." 

The  pony  started  down  the  hill  at  a  jog-trot. 

Four  miles  of  rough  country  road,  four  miles 
through  apple  orchards  and  by  fields  under  a  clear 
ing  sky  of  stars  that  began  to  fade  into  dawn,  four 
miles  of  sweat  and  fear  and  anguish  and  dry,  choking 
dust.  When  Q  reined  in  his  pony  at  last,  the  doctor 
dropped  heavily  to  the  earth. 

Q  dismounted,  helped  his  victim  to  stand  up,  and 
dusted  him  off  carefully,  putting  a  soft  hat  on  his 
head. 

"You  got  to  make  a  railway  journey  now,"  he  said. 
"I'll  see  your  things  get  sent  after  you.  You're  not 
comin'  back  to  Sluypenkill.  I  Ve  put  your  case  into 
the  hands  of  the  mayor,  the  editor  of  the  'Daily 
News,'  and  the  factory  directors.  They  all  know 
enough  of  your  history  to  jail  you,  or  worse.  I  Ve  got 
the  details  about  Mrs.  Clinton  and  Mrs.  Blain  and 
that  feller  that  died  of  gangrene.  Your  pet  nurse 


278  "Q" 

down  there,  Mrs.  Nallow,  has  gone  back  on  you  and 
peached.  We're  sending  her  away  in  tears,  a  sadder, 
wiser  woman.  There  ain't  no  future  for  you  here,  doc. 
You're  on  your  own  again.  Well,  I  don't  blame  you 
for  not  feelin'  conversational.  Come  on." 

"I  can't  walk,"  choked  William  Sales. 

"You  gotta  walk  as  far  as  the  station  yonder. 
Come  on.  I've  got  you." 

They  traveled  slowly,  the  pony  waiting  with  his 
reins  down,  Western  fashion,  and  went  along  the  road 
to  a  small  station.  Q  dropped  his  burden  like  a  dusty 
sack  on  one  of  the  benches,  strolled  over  to  the  office, 
and  bought  a  ticket  for  a  distant  Middle- Western 
town. 

"The  poor  old  fool  is  drunk,  but  harmless,"  he 
said.  "I'll  put  him  on  the  train  and  he'll  sleep  like  a 
lamb.  The  conductor  will  tell  him  where  to  change." 

The  station-master  grinned.  He  had  never  seen 
Sluypenkill's  leading  physician,  but,  if  he  had,  he 
would  not  have  recognized  the  collapsed,  heavily 
breathing  man.  The  train  came  back,  stopped  at  the 
signal  for  a  passenger.  Sales  was  plucked  from  his 
bench  and  heaved  into  a  car.  Q  saw  him  propped  in 
an  empty  seat,  murmured,  "Good-bye;  hit  a  new 
trail,  doc,"  and  swung  himself  off  as  the  train  gath 
ered  its  speed. 

Sales  with  dull  eyes  stared  out  at  the  tall,  still  fig 
ure  on  the  platform.  It  stood  there,  graceful,  tense, 
and  grim,  to  see  him  go.  He  was  numbly  glad  that  its 
face  looked  pale  and  set.  Good-bye  to  Sluypenkill,  to 
easy  rewards,  to  security,  to  rest.  Feebly  he  lifted  his 
big,  tremulous  fist  and  shook  it  against  the  window. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A  HOLD-UP 

WHEN  he  had  climbed  up  to  his  small  room,  already 
possessed  through  its  one  narrow  window  by  sunrise, 
Q  did  not  carry  himself  like  a  conqueror.  He  looked, 
rather,  like  a  victim  of  the  melee,  white  and  dusty 
and  grim,  with  a  set  mouth  and  painful  eyes.  He 
dropped  down  on  the  cot,  too  tired  to  think,  and  told 
himself  that  he  had  won  his  girl.  Before  he  had  time 
to  analyze  his  emotions,  a  business  for  which  he  had 
small  aptitude,  a  sleep  of  entire  exhaustion  smothered 
out  even  the  first  tremble  of  a  thought.  Only  just  as 
he  lost  himself,  the  linked  hands  of  the  conscious  and 
the  unconscious  unwillingly  disentwining,  he  endured 
a  strange  experience.  From  the  summit  of  attained 
desire,  he  dropped  into  a  terrible  abyss  of  failure  and 
of  loss.  He  knew  that  Heloise  loved  him  —  she  had 
told  him  that  she  would  give  him  anything,  every 
thing  he  wished,  and  she  knew  his  wishes  well  —  but 
in  the  knowledge  there  was  only  a  bitter  desolation, 
as  though  the  crescent  moon  had  withered  to  black 
ness  in  his  hands.  So  dark  and  terrible  was  the  sen 
sation  that,  had  he  been  less  exhausted,  it  must  have 
driven  him  to  the  rescue  of  full  consciousness;  but, 
before  he  could  struggle  away,  blankness  overtook 
him  and  he  slept  profoundly. 

At  noon,  bathed,  brushed,  and  faultlessly  attired, 
he  presented  himself  at  Mary  Grinscoombe's  door. 


280 "Q" 

It  was  open,  and  at  the  sound  of  his  step  she  came 
quickly  out  as  though  she  had  been  expecting  him.  In 
a  dress  of  soft  muslin  petals,  she  looked  like  a  small 
white  rose,  a  dainty,  dewy,  rain-beaten  rose.  Her 
face  had  thinned,  and  this  accentuated  the  beauty  of 
her  Irish  eyes  and  left  her  sensitive  mouth  almost  too 
expressive.  She  took  him  by  both  hands  and  looked 
up  at  him. 

"You  foolish  Q  —  you've  worried  me  dreadfully! 
What  made  you  go  away?  I  want  that  story  of  yours 
badly  —  you  did  n't  imagine  I  thought  Dr.  Sales  had 
the  right  of  it!"  But,  seeing  the  hawk  glitter  to  his 
eyes  and  the  sharp  triumph  that  lay  along  his  lips, 
she  changed  her  expression  swiftly. 

" What's  happened,  Q?" 

"I've  got  my  girl,"  he  whispered,  and  she  clutched 
his  hands  tight  before  she  dropped  them. 

"Come  in.  Tell  me.   You  are  wonderful!" 

She  seated  herself  with  an  unconscious  air  of  state- 
liness  in  her  schoolmarm's  place,  her  ruffled  dainti 
ness  spreading  out  about  her,  her  small  hands  folded 
together  on  the  table.  She  gazed  up  at  him  very 
steadily  under  the  arched  eyebrows  and  up-curling 
lashes.  He  stood  opposite  her,  turning  his  soft  hat  in 
his  hand  and  looking  slowly  and  wistfully  about  the 
room. 

"It  wasn't  my  education  that  won  her  for  me, 
Miss  Mary,"  he  drawled;  she  could  not  fail  to  discern 
his  bitterness;  "it  was  —  my  fists."  He  looked  down 
at  his  hands  and  she,  instinctively  looking  at  them 
too,  saw  torn  knuckles  and  bruised  fingers.  "I  reckon 


A  Hold-up  281 


the  moon  has  got  to  be  snatched  at,  Miss  Mary, 
rather  than  prayed  to." 

He  smiled  and  dropped  into  his  place,  putting  out 
one  of  the  strong  and  shapely  damaged  hands  across 
the  table  toward  her.  His  face  threw  off  its  new  mask 
of  victory,  and  sweetened  —  color  rushing  into  its 
tanned  pallor. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  and  Sophie's  got  her  Laurie-boy. 
I  've  done  pretty  near  everything  I  set  out  to  do,  and 
I'm  plumb  near  to  bein'  satisfied  with  myself." 

"You  look,"  Mary  shrewdly  observed,  "very  much 
farther  from  self-assurance  than  I've  ever  seen  you 
look.  Q,  please  tell  me  the  story  of  your  methods  with 
the 'Sophie  gel.'" 

He  did,  gently  and  patiently,  not  letting  her 
startled  "Ohs"  disturb  his  drawling,  half-ironic  de 
scription  of  the  topsy-turvy  melodrama. 

"And  now  I'm  going  to  New  York." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  in  New  York?"  She  sat 
back  as  though  pain  made  her  unable  any  longer  to 
keep  that  dainty  erectness  of  attitude.  He  flushed  hot 
and  high. 

"First,  I'm  agoin'  to  buy  the  finest,  classiest  ring 
you  need  ever  wish  to  see,  and  next  I  'm  agoin'  to  take 
your  pa's  book  to  visit  with  a  publisher." 

She  forgot  one  pain  for  another,  shaking  her  head 
patiently.  "It's  just,  dear  Q,  come  back  with  one  of 
the  horrid  slips.  We  laugh,  Papa  and  I,  but  it  does 
hurt.  We  need  the  money  pretty  badly  —  worse  than 
I  thought  we  did !  That  is  —  now  it  is  even  more  a 
matter  of  pride  to  pay  it  back  than  we  ever  thought 


4282 "Q" 

it  would  be.  Oh,"  she  broke  out  suddenly,  "if  I  could 
only  make  a  lot  and  a  lot  of  money,  if  I  could  get 
away!  Sometimes  I  feel  that  for  one  breath  of  free 
fresh  air  I'd  give  my  soul!  Don't  look  at  me  that 
way,"  she  laughed  shakily,  and  dropped  her  eyes  to 
her  hand;  "you  have  —  such  eyes!" 

They  brooded  over  her  and  through  her.  "I  was 
thinking,"  he  said  slowly,  "of  free  fresh  air,"  and  his 
chest  lifted  on  a  struggling  breath. 

The  tiny  room  contained  their  silence  loyally,  its 
clock  ticking  the  eternal  consolation  of  going  —  go 
ing  —  gone !  the  two  great  globes,  terrestrial  and  ce 
lestial,  gleamed  like  mysterious  bubbles  that  could 
vanish  at  a  pin-prick  into  space.  Mary  at  last  strug 
gled  away  from  that  silence.  She  went  over  to  her 
desk,  gathered  together  a  vast  mass  of  manuscript, 
put  it  into  a  clean  brown  envelope  and  brought  it  to 
Q.  "There,"  she  said,  smiling,  "take  it  and  find  out 
for  yourself  whether  any  publisher  will  ever  read  it 
through!" 

"One  is  agoin'  to  read  it."  He  rose  and  took  the 
bundle.  "I've  got  to  get  my  train,"  he  said  soberly, 
touched  her  fingers,  and  went  out. 

Another  man  would  have  written  to  his  lady,  or 
seen  her,  or  sent  her  a  message.  Q,  used  to  enforced 
absences  and  unbridgable  distances,  did  not  even 
think  of  calling  up  Heloise  on  the  telephone.  He  had 
his  own  theory  of  how  an  accepted  suitor  should  act; 
a  part  of  this  theory  was  that  an  engaged  man  should 
appear  with  a  ring  in  his  hand. 

The  clerk  at  Tiffany's  began  by  being  patient  and 


A  Hold-up  283 


ended  by  being  enthusiastic.  Q's  head  almost  touch 
ing  his  over  the  counter,  they  examined  jewel  after 
jewel,  discussed  setting  upon  setting.  The  final  choice 
was  a  pearl  like  a  full  moon  with  an  arrowy  sparkle  of 
sapphires  and  diamonds  pointing  about  it. 

"It  looks,"  said  Q  meditatively,  "like  moonlight 
and  starlight  layin'  in  the  holler  of  your  hand,  don't 
it?"  And  the  clerk,  being,  like  many  other  clerks,  an 
imprisoned  poet,  forced  himself  to  smile  at  the  mag 
nificent  Westerner's  poetry,  though  to  do  so  he  had  to 
grimace  slightly.  Sentiment  bends  often  over  the 
Tiffany  counters,  the  clerks  are  fairly  accustomed  to 
it,  but  it  usually  disguises  itself  decently  in  slang  or 
banter  or  impersonal  dignity;  Q's  poetry  had  stalked 
forth  unashamed. 

He  had  put  his  purchase  carefully  into  an  inner 
pocket,  the  same  one  that  held  the  faded  record  of 
Miss  Selda's  passionate  blunder,  and  then,  knitting 
himself  for  battle,  he  sought  out  an  address. 

The  atmosphere  of  a  publishing  house,  still,  spa 
cious,  leathery,  chilled  all  his  nerves.  He  stood  at  a 
sort  of  barrier  behind  which  gray,  scholarly,  old- 
young,  young-old  people  moved  without  haste  on 
various  dignified  errands,  and  at  last  he  attracted 
the  attention  of  a  bald-headed  young  scholar  with 
horn-rimmed  spectacles. 

"Say,"  murmured  Q  huskily,  "I  want  to  see  your 
boss." 

The  great  goggles  twinkled  upon  him.  "You  mean 
Mr.  Chiswick  or  Mr.  Mortimer?" 

"The  top  boss.  I  reckon  that  would  be  Mr.  Chis- 
\vick,  would  n't  it?"  * 


284 "Q" 

"He's  the  senior  partner,"  smiled  Goggles  pa 
tiently.  "Have  you  an  appointment?  Do  you  know 
him  personally?" 

"No,  sir.  But  I  hev  got  to  see  him  in  one  of  them 
glass  cages  —  where  I  hev  located  his  name." 

"I  believe  he's  busy.  Let  me  have  your  card." 

"That's  something  my  edication  has  n't  got  round 
to  yet.  Let  me  write  it  down  for  you,  stranger;  it 's  a 
right  tricky  name." 

He  wrote  it  in  pencil,  and  with  it  the  now  frankly 
grinning  Goggles  departed  in  the  direction  of  the 
glass  cage.  Q  stood  for  fifteen  minutes  and  sat  for  fif 
teen  more.  He  looked  at  tables  loaded  with  books  and 
his  heart  sank.  He  felt  for  something  heavy  in  his 
pocket.  At  last  Goggles  reappeared. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Kinwydden,  but  Mr.  Chiswick  is 
very  much  occupied  this  afternoon.  Perhaps  I  could 
attend  to  your  business." 

"No,  sir.  I  hev  got  to  see  the  boss." 

"I'm  very  sorry." 

"Don't  waste  your  sorrow.   I'm  agoin'  to  wait." 

Goggles 's  smile  vanished  and  seemed  to  be  trans 
lated  upward  into  a  frown. 

"It  will  be  no  use,  Mr.  Kinwydden.  Mr.  Chiswick 
is  definitely  engaged." 

"When  does  your  shop  close?" 

"Mr.  Chiswick  will  be  leaving  at  about  five-thirty 
to-day." 

Q  looked  at  his  watch. 

"I'll  wait,"  he  said,  and  sat  down  to  roll  and  light 
a  cigarette.  Goggles,  sarcastic  and  temporarily  baf- 


A  Hold-up  285 


fled,  withdrew  behind  tables  to  another  glass  cage, 
presumably  his  own.  Q  waited.  A  typist  not  far  away 
smiled  upon  him  and  he  dazzled  her  by  his  apprecia 
tive  return.  Another  clerk  presently  inquired  his  busi 
ness,  made  a  tentative  effort  to  win  into  Mr.  Chis- 
wick's  sanctuary,  and  came  back  to  advise  Mr.  — 
er  —  er  —  to  write  down  his  business.  Q  patiently 
repeated  himself. 

"I  don't  suffer  any  from  waitin',"  he  explained 
sweetly,  and  again  the  typist  and  he  exchanged  beau 
tiful  and  more  intimate  smiles. 

By  the  time  the  lights  came  on,  Q  had  smoked  his 
tenth  cigarette  and  began  to  roll  his  eleventh.  The 
typist  suddenly  and  impulsively  rose.  She  went  over 
to  Chiswick's  door  and  knocked  smartly.  There  was 
something  chivalrous  and  dauntless  in  the  carriage  of 
her  head.  She  remained  for  a  long  time  in  the  cage;  Q 
could  see  her  shadow  standing  above  some  one  and 
swaying  eloquently.  When  she  came  out,  she  came 
swiftly  on  glad  feet.  They  brought  her  through  a 
gate  to  Q,  who  rose  and  stepped  on  his  eleventh  ciga 
rette. 

"Mr.  Chiswick  will  see  you,"  she  said. 

"Say,"  said  Q,  drawing  a  breath,  "I  never  seen  a 
woman  I  liked  better  at  first  sight!"  And  he  fol 
lowed  her  to  the  glass  door. 

Mr.  Chiswick,  when  disclosed  behind  his  desk,  was 
a  square  brown  man,  neither  old  nor  young,  with 
slightly  bare  temples,  nervous,  dark  eyes  and  a  pleas 
ant,  though  chary,  smile.  He  leaned  back  in  a  swivel 
chair  and  lifted  weary  lids. 


286 "Q" 

"Since  you  must  see  me,  Mr.  Kinwydden,"  he  said, 
"please  be  as  brief  as  possible.  I've  had  a  busy  after 
noon/' 

"Mine  hasn't  been  as  busy  as  I'd  hev  liked  it  to 
be,"  said  Q.  He  stepped  back  to  the  door  and  locked 
it,  —  Chiswick  starting  violently  in  his  chair, —  then 
laid  a  bulky  manuscript  on  the  desk.  After  this  he 
straightened,  drew  an  automatic  from  his  right- 
hand  coat  pocket,  and  leveled  it  at  the  astounded 
publisher. 

"Quiet!  Quiet!"  he  said.  "You  read  that  there 
writin'  from  end  to  end  and  don't  you  quit  readin'  it 
until  you  come  to  page  the  last  and  don't  you  skip  a 
word." 

Mr.  Chiswick,  staring  at  the  maniac  and  breathing 
fast,  drew  the  manuscript  over.  "Yes,  yes,  of  course, 
with  pleasure,"  he  said  soothingly.  He  moistened  his 
lips  and  began  to  read  with  jerky,  upward  glances  be 
hind  which  was  evidently  a  brain  searching  for  escape 
or  rescue. 

"I  believe,"  he  murmured  cautiously,  almost  sing 
ing  the  words,  "that  we  have  had  this  manuscript  be 
fore,  Mr.  Kinwydden." 

"You  hev  sure  had  it  before,  but  you  hev  never 
read  it  before.  This  time  you're  agoin'  to  read  it." 

"I'm  afraid,"  murmured  the  publisher  —  then, 
glancing  up  and  singing  even  more  sweetly,  "you  are 
surely  not  the  author?  " 

"Do  I  look  it?"  drawled  the  highwayman,  and 
smiled. 

For  some  reason  that  smile  took  the  edge  off  Mr. 


A  Hold-up  287 


Chiswick's  alarm.  The  man  was  either  a  maniac  or  a 
practical  joker  of  some  obscure  and  extreme  variety. 
His  best  chance  was  to  oblige  the  fellow  and  read  this 
impossible  garbled  stuff.  With  a  mind  rather  more  at 
ease  and  less  wandering  eyes,  Chiswick,  making  a 
strong  effort,  focused  his  attention  on  the  clearly 
typed  sheets.  Page  after  page  was  thrown  impa 
tiently  aside,  then  suddenly  he  leaned  forward  and  his 
face  gleamed.  So  a  desert  traveler  greets  the  fra 
grance  of  fresh  water  under  palms.  Q  slipped  his  au 
tomatic  into  his  pocket  and  stood  at  ease.  The  pub 
lisher,  glancing  up,  relaxed  and  read.  The  glass  cage 
with  its  brilliant  green-shaded  light,  which  threw  a 
white  circle  across  the  manuscript  and  the  bent  head, 
seemed  to  be  possessed  by  the  delicate,  authoritative 
speech  of  Henry  Grinscoombe.  At  last,  Chiswick 
looked  up.  "This  is  great  stuff, "he  said.  "Mr.  Kin- 
wydden  —  "  then,  seeing  his  safety,  he  jerked  to  his 
feet,  "I  am  going  to  hand  you  over  to  the  police,"  he 
ejaculated  fiercely. 

"The  gun  was  n't  loaded,  sir,"  Q  murmured.  "Say, 
be  reasonable  —  I  wanted  you  to  read  that  book ! " 

Chiswick  glared,  and  through  the  glare  slowly 
emerged  a  delighted  sense  of  humor  and  a  satisfied 
desire  for  unusual  experiences.  He  slowly  reseated 
himself. 

"Your  methods,"  he  said,  "are  a  little  extreme, 
are  n't  they?  But  I  believe  we  are  going  to  be  grate 
ful  to  you.  We're  going  to  thank  you.  Yes  —  I 
doubt  if  I  should  ever  have  read  the  thing,  without 
your  —  prodding.  There  is  an  extraordinary  change 


288 "Q" 

which  does  not  occur  until  about  halfway  through  the 
third  chapter.  Listen!" 

Q  listened  wistfully. 

"Great  stuff,  eh?" 

"Ain't  that  the  truth!"  he  murmured  and  looked 
down.  He  had  never  been  able  to  get  the  drift  of  the 
Earthworm's  philosophy.  "You  are  agoin'  to  make 
a  book  of  it,  then?" 

"If  Mr.  Mortimer  agrees  —  we  are.  Yes,  I  may 
safely  say  that  we  positively  will.  But  not  because  of 
your  automatic,  Mr.  Kinwydden." 

"Oh,  that  was  as  harmless  as  a  child,  Mr.  Chiswick. 
You'll  put  that  down  in  writin'  for  me  —  I  mean,  as 
to  makin'  a  book." 

"Yes.  Here,  I '11  call  my  stenographer.  What's  the 
fellow's  name  —  Grinscoombe  —  good  old  New  York 
name  that  —  eh?" 

The  stenographer  took  down  the  letter  rapidly  — 
a  careful  appreciation,  an  acceptance  with  one  condi 
tion  —  that  the  author  agree  to  throwing  the  mate 
rial  contained  in  the  first  three  chapters  into  the  form 
of  an  introduction,  that  the  book  itself  begin  with 
Chapter  Four. 

"That  letter  will  go  off  as  soon  as  I  get  Mr.  Morti 
mer's  decision,  and  I've  no  doubt  of  its  being  favor 
able.  And  now,  Mr.  Kinwydden,  we're  past  office 
hours.  If  I  decide  not  to  hand  you  over  to  the  police 
—  will  you  have  dinner  with  me?  " 

"You're  a  real  man!"  ejaculated  Q;  and  added, 
"And  I'm  right  sorry  about  that  dinner.  I'd  mighty 
well  like  to  come,  but  I  Ve  got  to  get  back.  I"  —  he 


A  Hold-up  289 


felt  the  generous  and  plucky  victim  of  his  hold-up 
must  have  a  convincing  excuse  —  "I  hev  got  to  get  a 
new  ring  to  a  lady,"  he  said. 

Chi s wick  found  himself  involved  in  elaborate  con 
gratulations. 

An  August  moon  and  a  breathless  harvest  night  — 
the  long  Manor  drive,  straight  and  silver,  barred  by 
its  still  poplar  shadows  —  at  its  end,  the  Manor  door 
open  and  golden  as  a  human  smile:  through  this  fairy 
blue  enchantment  of  outdoors,  its  barrier  shadows, 
its  eerie,  bewildering  lights,  Q  moved  like  a  man  con 
scious  of  a  spell.  The  ring  lay  like  a  magic  token 
against  his  heart.  He  had  won  through  such  shadow 
barriers,  he  had  been  dazed  by  such  uncertain  lights, 
he  could  hardly  trust  himself  to  believe  in  the  golden 
welcome  up  there  at  the  journey's  end.  He  leapt  up 
the  steps  and  stopped,  to  get  his  breath,  shaken  by 
emotion,  by  suspense;  he  remembered  the  chill  May 
night  when  he  had  left  Heloise  with  a  sharp  dread  in 
his  heart.  He  shut  his  eyes,  thinking  of  victory. 

Then  he  went  in  softly.  The  hall  was  still;  a  big 
moth  fluttered  about  a  shaded  light;  the  gold  curtains 
hung  unmoved,  like  solid  metal.  In  its  silence  it 
seemed  a  hostile  place.  Q  took  out  his  ring,  pushed 
back  the  golden  draperies  with  a  conscious  effort  of 
his  will  and  stood  within  them,  clutching  them  to 
gether  behind  him  with  both  hands,  so  that  the  jewel 
cut  into  his  palm. 

Below  Sir  Sydney's  portrait,  Heloise  had  twisted 
herself  about  in  the  arms  of  a  tall  man.  They  fell  from 


290  "Q" 

her,  and  she  wavered  like  a  white  flame  in  a  wind. 
She  was  dressed  in  silver  with  the  crescent  of  brilliants 
in  her  hair.  Q  moved  forward  half  a  stride,  and  then 
she  spoke,  quickly,  never  so  surely,  a  little  loudly,  as 
from  a  height. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Q?  I  tried  to  get  you  yes 
terday.  Mr.  Marston  has  just  got  back  from  Russia. 
I  want  you  to  meet  him."  Her  eye  caught  Q's  and 
held  it  steadily.  "I  have  promised  him  to  be  his 
wife." 

Probably  for  the  first  time  since  his  overgrown  boy 
hood,  Q  did  a  physically  awkward  thing.  He  dropped 
his  ring  and  it  rolled  over  to  Lelo's  feet.  Marston 
bent  quickly  and  picked  it  up.  The  magnificent  jewel 
glimmered  on  his  palm.  Heloise  stared  down  at  it 
with  parted,  geranium-red  lips.  But  Marston  looked 
from  it  to  her.  His  fine-cut  face  quietly  betrayed  a 
question.  She  could  not  gather  her  answer;  all  her 
young  self-possession  left  her;  instinctively  she  looked 
to  Q  for  help.  Marston,  too,  turned  his  eyes  from  her 
to  the  man:  they  were  rather  deep-set  eyes,  uncom 
promising.  Q  answered  their  challenge,  but  it  was  the 
stark  prayer  in  Lelo's  face  that  shaped  his  speech. 

"My  mistake,"  he  murmured,  "not  hers."  He 
took  back  the  ring  and,  turning  it  in  his  fingers, 
smiled  imperturbably.  "I  reckon  I'm  not  used  to 
civilized  ways,"  he  said.  "Nobody  's  to  blame  but  the 
folks  that  did  n't  give  me  my  trainin'.  Mr.  Marston, 
I  did  Miss  Grinscoombe  a  service  and  she  thanked  me 
for  it.  She  did  n't  do  anything  but  thank  me,  but, 
being  a  plumb  fool  and  an  ignorant  man,  I  did  n't 


A  Hold-up  291 


savvy.  Instead  of  waiting  for  her  explanations,  I 
took  the  bit  in  my  mouth  and  bolted  like  a  bronc.  My 
mistake.  Miss  Grinscoombe,  will  you  take  the  ring 
—  as  an  engagement  present?"  He  took  her  hand 
boldly  and  coolly  in  one  of  his,  placed  the  ring  in  its 
narrow  and  icy  palm,  and  folded  her  long  fingers 
round  it.  "That's  payment  for  my  education,"  he 
said  —  "it  has  come  cheap.  I'll  say  good-bye  and 
wish  you  both  happiness.  I'm  agoin'  back  West, 
where  I  belong.  I  'm  plumb  tired  of  makin'  a  fool  of 
myself." 

With  that  he  smiled  again,  lifted  his  eyes  once 
somberly  to  Sir  Sydney  Grinscoombe,  bowed  and 
went  out. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MISS  SELDA'S  PRIDE 

THE  hall,  outside  of  the  gold  curtains,  seemed  to  be 
full  of  white,  dense  mist.  Q  stood  clutching  the  edge 
of  the  table  and  moving  a  hand  across  his  eyes  pa 
tiently  to  clear  them.  His  heart  and  brain  were  loud 
with  jeering  voices,  pointing  fingers,  mocking  laugh 
ter.  Sir  Sydney's  ghost  raised  a  thin,  lace-ruffled 
hand  from  his  gold-knobbed  stick  and  struck  him 
across  the  face.  Q  started  physically  and  made  out 
that  it  was  not  Sir  Sydney's  ghost,  but  Miss  Selda, 
smiling  faintly  and  holding  out  her  hand.  She  had  not 
struck  him,  but,  at  sight  of  her,  his  heart  turned  to 
iron  and  he  shut  his  teeth  tight  on  an  oath. 

"Will  you  come  in  here  with  me,  Q?"  she  asked. 
"I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

He  followed  her,  still  with  locked  teeth  and  lips, 
into  the  drawing-room,  where  she  seated  herself  and 
looked  up. 

The  slave  had  buried  the  treasure,  had  eased  her 
heart  of  dangerous  confidences,  could  now  be  de 
livered  over  to  his  death.  There  was  a  sort  of  death 
in  her  cold  face.  The  mist  cleared  from  his  brain, 
his  eyes  cleared,  he  looked  down  at  her,  and  Grins- 
coombery  could  not  shield  her  from  that  look. 

" I  meant  to  tell  this  news  to  you  myself,"  she  said; 
"I  meant  to  spare  you  from  any  little  shock  it  might 
still  be  to  you  to  see  my  niece  and  Fred  Marston  to- 


Miss  Selda's  Pride 293 

gether,  but  you  came  in  so  quietly  —  the  door  must 
have  been  open  —  I  suppose  they  told  you  —  that 
you  met  Fred  —  " 

A  capital  F  danced  before  Q's  eyes  and  illumi 
nated  his  memory. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said,  "I  met  Fred  .  .  .  't  was 
him  you  were  saving  her  for  all  the  while.  Doc  said 
you  had  'some  small  use'  for  me  in  your  plans  for 
your  niece.  I  was  to  keep  her  safe  from  Fer-dee-nand, 
to  hold  her  mind  steady,  to  amuse  her  safely  until 
Marston  made  up  his  mind  to  come  back  and  get 
her." 

"You  are  very  discerning,  Q.  Marston  took  the 
risk  last  fall  of  appearing  not  to  care  for  her,  I  imag 
ine,  because  he  wished  first  to  assure  himself  of  a  fu 
ture.  Heloise  could  never  marry  a  poor  man  —  you 
must  have  known  that,  Q." 

"Yes,  ma'am.  I'd  'a'  never  asked  her  to  think  of 
me  if  I  had  n't  been  so  awful  rich." 

She  jerked  like  a  wired  doll.   "You  rich!" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  rich  enough  to  buy  the  full  moon 
out  of  the  sky,  like  Miss  Mary  said  I  could.  It  was 
oil  I  struck  on  my  little  old  ranch  —  " 

Miss  Selda  was  staring  up  at  him  with  a  certain 
blankness  in  her  look. 

"I  took  a  greater  chance  than  I  knew,"  she  said. 
"  Why  did  n't  you  use  your  armory,  Q?  Why  did  n't 
you  tell  me  that?  Why  did  n't  you  tell  Heloise?" 

He  half-turned  from  her  and  leaned  against  the 
mantel,  a  composed  and  graceful  figure. 

"  There 's  a  lot  of  things  you  '11  never  savvy,  ma'am. 


294 "Q" 

And  no  especial  reason  why  you  should.  There's  a 
whole  lot  of  difference  in  our  raisin'  —  I  was  broke 
one  way,  you  and  Heloise  another  way.  We  can't  an 
swer  each  other's  questions  rightly,  ma'am,  and  that 
proves  that  it's  not  the  learnin'  you  can  get  from 
books  that  counts.  Onct  in  a  while  a  woman  is  born 
with  an  understanding  heart  —  "  He  paused,  wis 
dom  breaking  upon  his  brain. 

"I  can't  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  Q,"  she  said. 

And  abruptly  he  was  aware  of  her  strong,  re 
strained  emotion.  It  did  not  particularly  soften  him, 
but  it  made  him  turn  and  look  down  at  her  patiently. 

"Life  hits  harder  than  a  woman,"  he  said  slowly; 
"she  had  n't  ought  to  strike  first.  I  am  right  sorry  for 
you,  lady." 

She  shrank  from  this;  the  waver  uncontrollably  as 
sailed  her  look. 

"If  I  could  turn  you  out  of  my  memory,"  she  said 
slowly,  as  though  against  her  will,  "if  I  could  turn 
you  out  of  —  my  heart  —  Q  —  I  would." 

"You  knowed  he  was  comin'  back  for  her,"  said  Q; 
"you  knowed  you  was  savin'  her  for  him.  You 
knowed  I  was  helpin'  you  to  save  her  for  him.  You 
hev  used  my  love  to  —  to  kill  itself.  That  don't  take 
forgivin',  lady,  it  takes  somethin'  more.  I  will  wish 
you  good-bye  —  but  first  I  hev  to  give  you  some 
thing." 

"To  give  me?"  She  looked  up,  startled. 

He  was  taking  a  paper  from  his  pocket  and  his  face 
was  a  mask  of  gentleness.  "  You  can  be  as  proud  as 
you  like  now,  lady,"  he  said. 

She  took  the  paper  incredulously,  stared  down  at  it 


Miss  Selda's  Pride 295 

as  though  it  had  been  drenched  in  poison,  and  crum 
pled  it  slowly  in  her  two  hands.  She  could  not  lift  her 
eyes;  they  were  strangely  weighted.  She  knew  that 
she  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

It  was  uncomfortable  to  feel  that  she  could  not 
meet  Q's  eyes. 

"Doc  Sales  has  left  the  place,"  the  gentle,  fa 
miliar  voice  was  saying  evenly,  "and  he  won't  come 
back.  I  don't  like  to  see  folks  scared.  Will  you  be 
easy  now  in  your  heart?" 

She  could  not  ask  him  to  explain  his  miracle,  she 
could  not  dare  to  thank  him  for  it;  she  could  only 
shake,  and  presently,  with  a  terrible  contraction  of 
her  heart,  tears  came  and  fell  .  .  . 

Small  she  looked,  and  old,  and  pitiful. 

He  moved  closer  and  rested  his  hand  upon  her. 

"Don't  you  cry,"  he  said,  the  iron  gone  from  his 
voice,  "don't  you  cry.  It's  all  right,  lady.  You  don't 
need  to  worry  any  —  " 

She  caught  his  hand,  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips. 
She  hid  her  face. 

When  she  looked  up,  he  was  gone.  The  curtains 
inside  the  door  were  swinging,  his  step  rang  firmly  on 
the  road.  Miss  Selda  could  not  have  said  what  she 
felt.  Like  any  other  woman,  she  had  been  under 
stood,  she  had  been  served,  she  had  been  forgiven. 
Her  pride  was  rescued  from  its  slavery,  but  she  knew 
that,  remembering  Q's  eyes,  she  would  never  be  very 
proud  again.  Her  own  cruelty  had  cut  her  soul  too 
deep.  She  was  ashamed  and  desolate.  At  last  she 
tore  her  letter  into  a  hundred  little  pieces  and  burned 
them  on  the  hearth. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

OLD  BOTTLES 

To  Q,  the  following  morning,  was  forwarded,  from 
the  River  Hotel  to  his  present  quarters,  a  telegram. 
He  read  it  over  an  untasted  breakfast  in  Stringer's 
kitchen.  It  was  from  West  Lemmon. 

Come  to  me  at  once.  Very  urgent. 

LAURENCE  SALES 

Later  in  the  morning,  he  was  admitted  to  Sales's 
house,  but,  instead  of  being  taken  to  the  office  he  had 
entered  on  his  former  visit,  he  was  led  into  an  up 
stairs  sitting-room,  flanked  by  books,  charmingly 
furnished,  with  such  pictures  as  made  Q,  even  in  his 
mood  of  bitter  disillusionment,  focus  an  appreciative 
attention :  small  pictures  that  opened  out  of  doors  — 
showing  the  very  motion  of  sunlight  on  a  moving  tree 
and  fluttering  white  dress,  the  very  slash  of  fluent 
water  about  a  purple,  sun-flecked  rock.  There  was  a 
mountain,  too,  white-capped,  in  a  distance,  beneath 
some  amazing  tower  of  clouds.  He  turned  from  som 
ber  communion  with  the  mountain  at  Laurie's  en 
trance,  and  was  startled  by  the  pallor  of  his  face,  set 
tight  as  stone,  under  the  close-cropped  red  hair. 

Q  started  forward,  holding  out  his  hand,  but  Lau 
rie  made  no  move  to  take  it,  stood  still,  and  looked 
him  between  the  eyes. 

Instantly  the  Westerner  was  taut,  ready,  steeled. 

"Yesterday,  my  father  came  to  me  here.   He  was 


Old  Bottles  297 


in  a  terrible  condition,  pulse  all  but  gone;  he  told  me 
a  story  of  incredible  persecution.  He  had  been  driven 
out  of  Sluypenkill,  discredited,  stripped  of  his  liveli 
hood  and  of  his  reputation.  It  seems  to  have  been 
your  doings,  Kinwydden.  I  am  his  son  and  I  demand 
an  explanation/' 

Q  answered  instantly  without  the  slightest  apparent 
perturbation. 

"I  thought  you  must  have  knowed  your  father.  I 
figured  that  you'd  be  about  expectin'  somethin'  of 
this  nature.  That 's  one  reason  why  I  wanted  you  to 
make  tracks  for  the  West  —  to  get  away  from  all 
this.  I  did  n't  savvy  it  would  hurt  your  feelin's 
any- 

"My  own  father?" 

"Well,  sir,  fathers  is  something  that  I  know  very 
little  about.  I  never  had  one  of  my  own  and  most  of 
the  boys  I've  traveled  with  shook  their  fathers  off 
soon  and  early.  Anyway,  you  surely  ain't  responsi 
ble  for  your  father's  doin's,  and  as  for  what  I  done 
—  it  was  my  duty.  The  fight  was  on  between  him 
and  me  from  the  start.  I  warned  him.  He  done  what 
he  could  to  cross  me  —  he  was  as  bent  to  run  me  out 
and  ruin  my  reputation  and  my  career  as  I  was  to  do 
the  same  by  him.  He  got  pretty  far  on  his  way  to 
doin'  it,  too.  If  you  had  felt  yourself  responsible  for 
him,  Sales,  you  had  ought  to've  kep'  watch  over  him 
and  his  doin's.  Any  time  these  past  twelve  years,  he 
might  have  been  jailed  —  or  manhandled  —  had  n't 
it  been  for  a  scared  woman  —  all  his  life  he 's  been 
shielded  by  a  woman,  he's  been  hidin'  behind  her 
skirts  —  " 


298 "Q" 

"Hush!"  Laurie  put  up  his  hand  and  moved 
white  lips.  "Don't  speak  so  loud.  He's  dead!" 

Q  stood,  unmoved. 

"I  consider  you  directly  responsible  for  his  death." 

"If  I  am,  I  take  the  responsibility.  He  had  ought 
to  have  died." 

Laurie  sprang  forward  and  caught  the  speaker  by 
the  arm. 

"By  God!  What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  am  sorry  —  if  you  loved  him,  but  the  man  to 
my  knowledge  caused  more  than  one  death.  If  I  had 
left  him  to  the  Mill  hands  that  night,  he  'd  have  died 
worse  and  quicker.  I  made  him  run  where  he  once  re 
fused  to  drive  to  save  a  woman's  life.  She  was  a  poor 
young  woman  with  children.  She  was  took  with  a 
heart  attack.  A  stimulant,  as  you  know,  if  it  had  got 
to  her  in  time,  might  have  saved  her.  I  called  up  doc 
on  the  telephone.  I  explained  the  case.  It  was  a  bad 
night,  rainin'  hard,  and  he  said  —  'Call  me  up  on  a 
night  like  this  for  a  case  at  the  Gully?  —  the  quicker 
that  rabbit-warren  dies  off,  the  better  — ' ' 

It  was  impossible  not  to  recognize  the  speech  —  it 
seemed  to  be  shaped  in  Sales's  very  throat.  Laurie 
turned  away  and  put  a  hand  to  his  eyes. 

"And  that's  only  one  case,  man.  I  could  tell  you  a 
half-dozen  others.  That  was  my  introduction  to  your 
father,  and,  when  I  left  the  'phone  and  came  back  to 
that  woman  and  saw  her  die,  I  set  my  mind  to  track 
ing  him  down  and  punishing  him  for  his  sins.  If  the 
laws  can't  protect  poor  folks,  if  the  laws  is  got 
around  by  money  or  power,  then  the  laws  hev  to  be 


Old  Bottles  299 


enforced  by  free  men.  Ain't  that  the  truth,  Laurie? 
Sluypenkill  had  been  patient  with  your  father  too 
long;  it  had  been  scared  of  the  influence  that  worked 
for  him.  It  had  been  a  mighty  timid  place.  Ellison 
tried  to  expose  your  father,  and  he  was  ruined.  A 
working-man  tried  to  get  justice  against  him,  and 
he  was  driven  away.  If  I  have  been  a  harder  judge 
it's  because  I'm  a  harder  man.  Doc  Sales  ain't  the 
first  man  I've  —  killed  —  though  I  did  n't  set  out  to 
kill  him  —  mind  you !  —  and  felt  that  I  had  done 
God's  work  in  killin'.  He  died  from  the  effects  of 
his  own  way  of  living.  He  died  because  he  did  n't 
have  the  nerve  or  the  grit  to  take  his  punishment. 
It  was  n't  in  him  to  make  a  fresh  start;  he  had 
been  pampered  too  long.  A  man  can't  afford  to 
make  a  pet  of  his  own  soul." 

Young  Sales  had  walked  over  to  a  window  and  was 
standing,  his  hands  clenched  at  his  sides.  Q  listened 
to  his  hard  breathing,  and  his  heart  began  to  be  dis 
turbed.  This  was  the  man  whose  friendship  he  had 
greatly  coveted,  whose  good  opinion  he  had  over 
whelmingly  desired.  The  man  was  judging  him,  hat 
ing  him,  about  —  if  he  did  no  worse  —  to  throw  him 
out  of  his  life.  Q  moved  slowly  back  and  forth  across 
the  room,  a  storm  gathered  in  his  breast. 

"It  will  be  impossible  for  me  to  accept  any  service 
from  you  now,"  said  Laurie  presently,  without  look 
ing  about.  "Naturally  I  will  leave  my  practice  here. 
I  can't  stay.  The  scandal  about  my  father  is  bound  to 
grow  and  spread.  Also,  it  will  be  impossible  for  me  to 
form  any  sort  of  association,  any  tie  at  all,  with  a  man 


300 "Q" 

who  is  directly  responsible  for  his  disgrace  and  death. 
Mind,  you  have  forced  me  to  admit  a  wild  sort  of  jus 
tice  in  your  proceedings,  but  —  the  fact  remains  — 
that,  whatever  my  father  did  or  left  undone,  he  is  my 
father.  And  he  came  to  me  in  his  trouble.  And  died 
as  a  consequence  of  the  treatment  he  received.  Jus 
tice  is  one  thing,  Q  Kinwydden,  and  violence  is  quite 
another.  Your  violence  against  a  man  almost  twice 
your  age  seems  to  me  cowardly  and  unjustifiable.  My 
father"  —  he  choked  a  little  —  "was  helpless  in  your 
hands.  As  helpless  as  Sophie  when  you  tied  her  to 
your  chair  and  forced  her  to  wait  for  you.  That  piece 
of  *  knight-errantry '  is  as  incomprehensible  to  me  as 
this  one.  I  find  our  standards  of  conduct  unreconcil- 
able.  To  me  you  seem  a  savage.  If  you  are  what  the 
West  produces  —  I  confess  I  have  no  sympathy  with 
the  West." 

"Don't  you  judge  the  West  by  me,"  said  Q  quickly. 
"I  ain't  no  fair  specimen.  The  West  ain't  responsible 
fer  me.  I  raised  myself."  Then,  in  an  accent  of  real 
despair,  he  added,  "I  wisht  I  could  get  you  to  under 
stand." 

Laurie  faced  about,  lifted  his  head,  and  looked  at 
the  speaker.  The  eyes  of  the  man  revealed  him,  his 
honesty,  his  dignity,  his  strength.  "How  can  a  man 
live  except  by  his  own  knowledge,  Laurie?  I  got  my 
knowledge  from  my  life.  I  got  my  feelin'  of  what  is 
right  and  wrong  from  watchin'  God's  ways  with  men. 
I  can  forgive  a  lot  of  things  that  likely  would  turn 
you  sick,  but  there's  things  I  can't  forgive,  and  when 
I  see  them  I've  got  to  fight  them.  And  I've  got  to 


Old  Bottles  301 


fight  them  in  my  own  way,  not  yours  nor  any  other 
man's.  If  life  has  taught  me  to  use  my  hands,  is  that 
my  fault?  Doc  sinned  with  his  head  —  if  he'd  done 
his  deeds  with  his  hands,  he'd  have  died  long  since. 
Had  n't  it  been  for  my  tyin'  up  your  Sophie  gel  — 
where  would  she  be  now?  Had  n't  it  been  for  my  run- 
nin'  your  father  out,  who  might  n't  have  suffered  and 
died  on  account  of  him?  One  woman  I  know  has  been 
in  hell  for  years.  To  my  way  of  thinking,  he  was  the 
coward  and  the  bully,  and  rough  handling  was  what 
he  needed  and  deserved.  I  am  likely  a  savage.  But  I 
did  n't  hurt  your  Sophie  gel.  She  understands.  Per 
haps  she 's  a  savage  like  me.  Your  father  knew  what 
to  expect  from  me.  I  saved  him  that  night  from  a 
horse- whipping.  He  was  thankful  to  me.  All  the  sav 
ages  ain't  in  the  West.  I  don't  usually  waste  words  in 
explaining  myself,  but  you  hev  hurt  me  pretty  bad 
because  I  know  that  you  are  a  real  man.  I  kind  of 
wanted  to  name  you  friend.  That  can't  be  now,  but 
it  can  be  that  you  will  do  me  justice.  Later,  when  you 
have  stopped  grieving  for  your  father's  death,  you 
will  see  me  clear.  Until  then,  I  better  say  good-bye." 

He  walked  slowly  toward  the  door,  his  head  up. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  Laurie  said,  and  stood,  hands 
clasped  behind  him,  looking  Q  steadily  and  quietly  in 
the  eyes.  Then  he  put  out  his  hand.  Q  caught  at  it, 
color  flooded  his  face,  he  dropped  his  lids.  There  was 
a  quivering  in  his  long,  strong  hand. 

"Will  you  go  out  to  my  town  —  with  Sophie?" 
asked  the  Westerner  beseechingly. 

Laurie  said  "yes,"  wrung  the  hand,  and  turned 
away. 


302 "Q" 

He  sat  for  an  hour  after  the  Westerner  had  left, 
and  cleared  his  spirit,  slowly,  painfully,  of  many  will 
ful  misconceptions.  And  his  pride  hurt  him  sorely  — 
it  had  needed,  it  would  seem,  this  ignorant,  untamed 
man  to  shape  his  life  and  love  for  him.  It  had  needed 
this  same  ruthless,  natural  man  to  tear  the  veil  away 
from  his  knowledge  of  his  father.  He  had  blinded 
himself  to  the  truth,  he  had  kept  himself  from  Sluy- 
penkill  —  was  n't  he,  after  all,  responsible  for  that 
wretched  father's  death?  Would  he  not,  after  all  — 
but  for  the  savage  —  be  responsible  for  something 
that  would  have  been  worse  for  Sophie  than  her 
death?  The  new  strong  wine  of  action,  of  unhesitat 
ing,  open-eyed,  uncomplicated  force.  Was  there  a 
place  for  it  in  the  civilized  world?  Probably  not,  but 
when  it  broke  loose  —  did  n't  it  sometimes  break  old 
galling  chains  and  free  profound  despairs?  His  life 
would  be  the  cleaner  for  Q's  passionate  interference. 
Sluypenkill  would  be  the  cleaner.  To  see  what  was 
right  and  to  do  it,  instantly,  without  thought  of  self. 
Yes  —  Laurie  smiled  the  smile  of  cynical  civilization 
—  and  then  be  stoned  to  death  by  an  uncompre 
hending  mob.  Well  he  and  Sophie  would  try  the 
West. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

,  A  COPY-BOOK 

HALF  unwillingly  Q  dragged  himself  back  to  Mary 
Grinscoombe's  door.  It  was  hard  to  be  beaten;  it  was 
harder  to  admit  defeat.  And  the  little  schoolmarm 
had  done  so  much  to  arm  him  for  his  battle.  Only  two 
days  ago  he  had  come  to  her  for  applause;  it  was  sore 
to  his  pride  to  ask  now  for  her  consolation.  And  yet, 
he  wanted  her  badly,  and  he  must  surely  tell  her,  and 
say  good-bye. 

She  did  n't  come  to  answer  his  ringing,  so  he  let 
himself  in  and  looked  for  her  in  the  parlor.  At  last, 
there  being  no  sound  in  the  house,  he  sat  down  in  his 
old  place.  He  stared  at  the  pages  of  his  copy-book  — 
the  last  copy  of  all.  It  was  a  proverb  she  had  chosen 
for  him  —  "Still  waters  run  deep."  And  he  looked 
along  it  idly,  absorbed  by  the  aching  weariness  which 
had  become  his  heart.  He  had  not  written  very  well; 
the  letters  were  all  blurred.  Some  one  must  have 
spilled  water  over  them.  The  page  was  blistered  here 
and  there;  she  had  probably  been  fixing  her  flowers* 
Funny !  She  was  usually  so  daintily  sure  about  every 
thing  she  did.  Not  until  months  later,  alone  on  a 
great  plain  under  the  stars,  did  the  explanation  of  the 
blurred  letters  and  the  blistered  page  flash  upon  Q. 
It  was  then  the  kindling  spark  of  a  greater  illumina 
tion.  Now,  he  pushed  the  book  away  with  an  impa 
tient  sigh. 


304  "Q" 

Mary  came  into  the  kitchen.  He  had  not  the  wish 
to  hasten  her  entrance,  but  when,  in  the  course  of  her 
small  undertakings,  she  did  appear,  he  came  to  his 
feet  and  smiled. 

She  was  all  flushed  and  sparkling,  radiant  and  re 
leased.  Her  eyes  kept  a  personal  secret  of  unhap- 
piness,  but,  for  the  rest,  she  had  yielded  utterly  to 
the  first  real  joy  of  her  life.  She  ran  quickly  over  to 
him. 

"Oh,  Q,  whatever  can  I  say  to  thank  you!  Yes. 
The  letter  came.  It  went  through  and  through  us  like 
lightning!  You  know"  —  she  laughed  —  "poor  Papa 
is  so  happy  that  he's  had  to  be  put  to  bed.  He  went 
round  and  round  the  room  like  a  bewildered  moth. 
He  could  n't  —  he  simply  could  n't  believe  it.  No  — 
you  can't  know  what  it  will  mean." 

"I'm  sure  glad."  He  drew  a  deep  and  very  bitter 
breath.  "Then  I  hev  done  something  even  if  it  is  n't 
what  I  set  out  to  do." 

She  stood,  flushed,  and  began  to  puzzle  over  him. 
He  was  changed. 

"But,  Q,  you've  done  everything!" 

He  held  her  eyes  with  his  own  smiling  ones.  She 
could  n't  see  into  his  heart.  She  had  a  sudden  achey 
feeling  that  no  one  perhaps  would  ever  see  into  it 
again. 

"I  have  n't  got  my  moon,"  he  said.  "She's  slipped 
through  my  fool  fingers  —  somehow.  There  was  an 
other  fellow." 

Mary  was  terribly,  astonishingly  white. 

"Heloise!" 


A  Copy-Book  305 


"Yes.  She  is  going  to  marry  a  real  man,  and  I 
reckon  he's  a  real  gentleman.  He  looks  like  he'd 
knowed  readin'  and  writin'  and  arithmetic,  history 
and  geography,  languages  alive  and  dead,  from  his 
cradle  up,  Miss  Mary.  He  sure  does.  And  now  I  'm 
agoin'  to  go  back  West  where  I  belong.  May  I  see 
your  father?  I've  come  to  tell  you  a  good-bye." 

Upstairs,  he  of  the  white  panache  raised  himself 
quickly  on  his  pillow  at  Q's  entrance.  The  Grins- 
coombe  face,  purged  of  pride  and  bitterness,  spiritu 
ally  beautified,  Sir  Sydney  transfigured,  smiled,  lips 
and  eyes  and  heart,  at  Q.  And  he  felt  that  here  at 
least  savagery  had  justified  itself.  The  pistol  and  the 
publisher  had  been  the  right  conjunction  of  planets 
for  Henry's  happiness.  The  Earthworm  triumphed 
visibly. 

"Some  day  you'll  read  it,  Q?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  sure  will."  (And  he  did,  too,  under- 
standingly,  his  education  having  gained  an  impetus 
that  no  changes  in  his  life  could  stop.) 

"We've  had  some  great  talks,  great  times,  Q. 
Don't  think  I  did  n't  understand  what  you  did  for 
me!  I  find  it  difficult  to  wish  you  a  good-bye." 

"I'll  be  looking  at  the  stars  above  the  range,"  said 
Q  huskily,  "and  saying  their  names  —  that  will  spell 
yours  over  to  me  often,  sir." 

There  was  something  perilously  fragile  about  the 
little  man  in  bed.  He  was  like  a  delicate  clear  vessel 
filled  with  some  fluid  exquisitely,  dangerously  vital.  Q 
was  afraid.  He  left  the  room  with  a  blindness  of  tears 
across  his  eyes. 


306 "Q" 

Down  in  the  sitting-room,  five  minutes  later,  Mary 
leaned  against  the  window-sill  heavily  for  such  a 
small  and  slender  person,  to  watch  Q  down  the  path. 
She  could  n't  follow  him  to  the  door.  She  found  that 
her  courage  was  all  gone  —  all  dead. 

Halfway  to  the  gate,  he  started,  as  though  he  had 
forgotten  something.  He  looked  back  with  a  dazed, 
groping  air.  Her  heart  stood  still.  Then  he  went  on 
slowly,  and  slowly  swinging,  lithe  and  young  and 
splendid,  he  passed  away  down  the  shabby,  empty 
little  street. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

BESIDE  STILL  WATERS 

Q  WENT  back  to  his  West  —  not  the  West  of  oil-fields 
and  mushroom  cities,  but  to  his  own  old  West  of 
mountain  and  of  range.  There  he  drank  deep  of  night 
winds  and  rode  far  under  noon  skies  and  white  stars, 
breathing  the  aromatic  dust  of  sage.  He  renewed  ac 
quaintance  with  slow-spoken,  deep-eyed  folk  and 
with  his  nosing  pony,  and  he  pondered  patiently  over 
his  experience.  His  education  took,  during  these  wide 
autumn  days,  deep  root. 

While  he  rode  and  pondered,  he  founded  his  ranch 
—  two  thousand  acres  to  be  dedicated  to  the  raising 
of  fine  stock.  Q  spent  his  money  with  a  cool,  far- 
sighted  lavishness,  so  that,  before  snow  came,  he  pos 
sessed  his  land  and  had  "builded  him"  his  log  house, 
polished  and  fragrant  without  and  within,  like  the 
ark  of  the  covenant.  It  was  spring  again  before  he 
had  furnished  it,  however,  and  in  the  furnishing  he 
showed  the  influence  of  Sluypenkill.  It  was  not  the 
usual  ranch  interior;  it  was  quiet  and  dim  and  rather 
beautiful.  Much  of  the  richness  was  furnished  by 
long  shelves  of  books.  Mary  helped  him  to  choose  his 
library.  They  exchanged  frequent  letters  in  which  he 
was  able  better  and  better  to  articulate  his  soul.  He 
strode  forth  on  the  pages  in  big  black  writing,  hu 
morous,  masculine,  and  dignified  —  and  he  read  Mary 
in  her  funny,  emphatic,  crabbed  pen-scratchings,  so 


308  "Q" 

quick,  so  mirthful,  tart,  and  sensitive.  It  was  May 
when  the  last  box  of  books  arrived.  He  stood  to  ar 
range  them  in  his  big,  clean  living-room,  as  yet  un 
curtained.  Doors  and  windows  stood  open,  and 
through  them  poured  fragrance  of  emerald-tipped 
pines  and  sappy  aspens,  fragrance  of  winds  from  high 
snows  and  lupine  patches,  and  always  the  fresh 
rattling  of  the  creek  beneath  his  window,  the  airy 
crystalline  chords  of  bird-singing,  a  wistful,  aching 
medley  of  sight  and  smell  and  sound  which  seemed 
to  be  trying  to  repeat  over  and  over  an  inexpressible 
delight.  Q  paused  in  his  arranging  of  the  volumes 
and  stood  with  his  eyes  half -closed.  He  had  never 
so  poignantly  felt  the  spring  before.  He  reached  over 
to  the  top  of  his  shelves  and  opened  Mary's  letter, 
which  he  had  been  saving  to  read  at  his  leisure. 
Suddenly,  with  spring  in  his  throat,  he  could  n't 
wait.  It  was  brief  and  unsteadily  written.  The  little 
father  was  dead. 

I  think  happiness  was  too  much  for  him,  Q.  He  had  never 
in  his  life  been  happy  —  only  brave  and  patient.  I  am  glad 
he  lived  to  see  his  book.  Aunt  Selda  came  to  see  him  at  the 
last.  After  he  had  sent  her  some  money  she  had  lent  him. 
It  seemed  to  hurt  her  terribly  —  his  death.  She  cried.  I 
am  going  away  from  this  house.  I  can't  bear  it  any  more. 
I  '11  be  teaching  somewhere. 

Q  put  down  the  letter.  He  looked  pale  and  fierce. 
He  strode  out,  whistled  to  his  grazing  horse,  swung 
into  the  saddle,  and  turned  toward  space.  All  after 
noon  he  rode,  his  hand  resting  for  comfort  on  the 
pony's  neck,  and,  dark  coming  upon  him  far  from 


Beside  Still  Waters 309 

home,  he  picketed  the  animal  and  lay  down  before  a 
fire  under  the  stars.  Up  there  beyond  them  now  the 
little  philosopher  was  free.  Doubtless,  thought  Q,  he 
sat  and  discoursed  quaint  wisdom  to  the  spirits  of  just 
men.  What  did  n't  he  know  now?  What  did  n't  he 
understand?  —  the  shakiness  made  steady,  the  wa 
tery  eyes  clear,  the  lips  healed  of  their  patience,  the 
brave  panache  lifted  into  light.  By  the  glow  of  the 
campfire  Q  re-read  Mary's  letter.  It  was  blistered 
with  tears.  And  that  released  and  explained  a  mem 
ory  of  the  spattered  copy-page.  She  must  have  been 
crying  over  it  —  crying  over  his  lessons.  Why  —  in 
the  name  of  wonder?  Why? 

This  small  problem  he  pondered  half  the  wakeful 
night  under  those  constellations  Henry  Grinscoombe 
had  named  for  him  once  in  a  July  harvest-field.  And, 
before  dawn,  guided  by  the  one  small  light,  he  slept 
with  an  illuminated  heart. 

Miss  Myrtle  Clayton,  very  slim,  very  languid,  very 
much  waved  as  to  hair  and  very  much  manicured  as 
to  fingers,  minding  the  desk  at  the  River  Hotel,  was 
instantly  aware  of  a  gently  spoken  question  and 
lifted  her  head. 

"Can  I  have  Room  90  on  the  fourth  floor,  lady?" 

She  looked  into  the  speaker's  eyes  and  there  her 
observation  stopped  and  stood  quiet.  Miss  Myrtle 
Clayton  pushed  forward  the  hotel  register. 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  said.   "Room  90." 

The  stranger  wrote  his  name,  Q.  T.  Kinwydden, 
and  added  an  address.  Then  he  turned  to  a  blond  ele- 


310 "Q" 

vator  boy,  who  dropped  his  jaw  and  dilated  his  prom 
inent  eyes. 

"Hullo,  Bill,"  said  Q.  They  gripped  each  other  by 
the  hand. 

"Aren't  you  tired  of  your  buzz-box  yet?  Have 
they  given  you  a  raise?  " 

"Nope,"  grinned  Bill,  regretfully;  "I'm  lucky  to 
hold  down  my  job." 

They  mounted  slowly,  Bill  swallowing  some  in 
comprehensible  obstacle  under  his  collar. 

"Want  to  go  West?"  asked  Q.  "I  haven't  any 
buzz-box  in  my  hotel,  but,  say,  you  can  learn  how  to 
chop  wood.  How'd  you  like  to  roustabout  for  a 
change  of  air  —  and  wages?" 

The  lift  faltered,  fell,  caught  itself  together  and 
bounded  upwards,  bouncing  to  a  stop  at  the  fourth 
floor.  Q  murmured  something  and  stepped  out  pre 
cipitately.  "God!"  he  said,  "things  is  just  as  dan 
gerous  in  these  parts  as  thej  used  to  be." 

Bill  tumbled  after  him  along  a  renovated  hall.  In 
Room  90,  also  renovated,  he  began  to  stutter. 

"S-say,  mister,  do  you  mean  it?" 

"I  sure  do.  What  you  waitin'  for  —  a  tip?" 

"Don't  you  dast  give  me  one!"  Bill  shouted,  and, 
crimson  in  the  face,  he  bolted,  slamming  the  door 
and  reeling  along  the  crimson  hall,  drunk  with  the 
thought  of  change,  of  liberty,  of  unrestricted  hero- 
worship. 

Q  strolled  over  to  the  window  and  looked  down 
upon  Main  Street.  It  was  unchanged  —  still  a  cross 
between  Sugar  City  and  Oil  Corners,  and  no  compli- 


Beside  Still  Waters  311 

ment  to  either.  Q  bathed  and  dressed  and  ate  his 
dinner  soberly  —  a  better  dinner,  served  by  a  far 
less  striking  waitress.  Miss  Sherman  and  Miss  Win 
ters  were  away.  School  had  closed.  It  was  already 
June. 

After  dinner,  the  Westerner,  with  a  white  face  and 
brilliant  eyes,  strode  down  Main  Street  and  turned 
into  a  familiar  lane.  The  beating  of  his  heart  dis 
turbed  him.  He  found  it  difficult  to  breathe.  The 
house  was  not  closed,  the  door  even  stood  open  in  its 
old,  informal  fashion.  Q  got  himself  across  its  thresh 
old  and  stood,  dumb  and  breathless,  in  the  doorway 
of  the  tiny  parlor.  It  was  stripped  of  the  familiar 
things.  Mary  looked  up  from  a  trunk  before  which 
she  was  kneeling  on  the  floor,  clapped  her  hands  to 
gether,  and,  falling  back  against  her  heels,  spread 
both  those  small,  hard-working  hands  over  a  throb 
bing,  flaming  face. 

She  was  in  black;  very  small  and  slim  she  looked  — 
her  hair  sparkled  ruddily.  He  came  over  and  lifted 
her  up  and,  shaking  uncontrollably,  drew  down  her 
hands. 

"Miss  Mary  —  I  have  n't  forgotten  your  copy  — 
*  Still  waters  run  deep'  —  my  pride  and  my  will  was 
set  wrong,  but  it  was  you  my  heart  wanted  from  the 
first.  Only  —  I  'm  sure  the  gol-derndest  ignorantest 
growed  man  in  the  U-ni  —  " 

She  looked  up,  flung  both  her  arms  about  him,  and, 
shutting  her  eyes  tight,  she  put  her  mouth  quickly 
against  his. 

And  speaking  stopped. 


312 "Q" 

A  little  crescent  moon  above  the  still,  high  tops  of 
firs;  below,  a  camp-fire  glowing  dimly,  ponies  crop 
ping  on  a  dewy  hillside;  up  there  a  snow-peak  dizzily 
high  .  .  .  Q  lay  in  his  blankets  and  watched  the  cres 
cent  moon.  A  shining  figure  seemed  to  shape  itself  be 
low  it,  dressed  in  silver  —  it  wore  a  small  and  scorn 
ful  smile.  Q  turned  from  it  restlessly,  rose  on  an  elbow 
and  stretched  out  his  right  hand.  It  grasped  another 
hand,  warm  and  small,  and  Mary,  waking,  sighed 
contentedly  and  looked  up  like  a  child  from  her  sleep. 

"Mary,"  Q  whispered,  "I  had  to  ask  you  some 
thing.  Was  Sir  Sydney  Grinscoombe  your  great- 
great-great-grandfather,  too?" 

"Yes,  dear."  Her  fingers  clung  a  little  and  she 
smiled. 

"Thank  God  for  that!"  said  Q. 

Triumph  for  an  instant  conquered  the  serene  con 
tentment  of  his  face. 


THE  END 


YB  32280 


M27119 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


